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NIVER5/A 


The  Writings  of 
"FIONA    MACLEOD 


UNIFORM  EDITION 


ARRANGED   BY 

MRS.   WILLIAM    SHARP 


I  too  will  set  my  face  to  the  wind  and 
throw  my  handful  of  seed  on  high. 

— F.   M. 


exs-0 


Pharais 

and 

The   Mountain   Lovers 


BY 

"FIONA    MACLEOD" 

(WILLIAM   SHARP) 


NEW    YORK 

DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
STONE  &   KIMBALL 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
JOHN   LANE 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


THE   TROW    PRESS,    NEW   YORK 


PR 
5~3SO 

I  ! 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD vii 

By  Elizabeth  A.   Sharp 

PHARAIS ii 

THE    MOUNTAIN    LOVERS 181 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 401 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp 


" 


"//  is  Loveliness  I  seek,   not  lovely  things." 


FOREWORD 

INTO  this  collected  edition  are  gathered  all 
the  writings  of  William  Sharp  published 
under  his  pseudonym  "Fiona  Macleod,"  which 
he  cared  to  have  preserved ;  writings  charac- 
terised by  the  distinctive  idiom  he  recognised 
to  be  the  expression  of  one  side  of  his  very 
dual  nature — of  the  spiritual,  intuitive,  sub- 
jective self  as  distinct  from  the  mental,  rea- 
soning, objective  self. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  edition  I  have 
carefully  followed  the  author's  written  and 
spoken  instructions  as  to  selection,  deletion, 
and  arrangement.  To  the  preliminary  ar- 
rangement he  gave  much  thought,  especially  to 
the  revision  of  the  text,  and  he  made  consider- 
able changes  in  the  later  version  of  certain  of 
the  poems  and  tales.  In  one  instance  only  have 
I  acted  on  my  own  judgment,  and  have  done  so 
because  I  felt  satisfied  he  would  have  offered 
no  objection  to  my  suggestion.  In  accordance 
with  his  decision  the  romance  Green  Fire  is 

vii 


Foreword 

not  reissued  in  its  entirety,  because  he  consid- 
ered the  construction  of  it  to  be  seriously  de- 
fective. He  rewrote  the  second  half  of  the 
story — the  only  portion  he  cared  to  keep — re- 
named it  "  The  Herdsman  "  and  included  it  in 
The  Dominion  of  Dreams.  Scattered  through- 
out Green  Fire  there  are  a  number  of 
'  Thoughts  "  which  I  and  other  readers  are 
desirous  of  preserving ;  I  have  therefore  gath- 
ered them  together  and  have  included  them 
in  the  form  of  detached  "  Fragments." 

The  Laughter  of  Peter  kin  is  also  excluded, 
because  it  is  a  retelling  of  old  familiar  Celtic 
tales  and  not  primarily  an  original  work.  Two 
of  these  retellings,  however,  Deirdre  and  the 
Sons  of  Usna,  and  The  Four  White  Swans 
have  been  published  separately  in  America  by 
Mr.  Mosher  (Portland,  Maine). 

Though  the  "  Fiona  Macleod "  phase  be- 
longs to  the  last  twelve  years  of  William 
Sharp's  life,  the  formative  influences  which 
prepared  the  way  for  it  went  back  to  child- 
hood. Though  "  the  pains  and  penalties  of 
impecuniosity  "  during  his  early  struggles  in 
London  tended  temporarily  to  silence  the  in- 
tuitive subjective  side  of  his  nature  in  the 
necessary  development  of  the  more  objective 
intellectual  "  William  Sharp  " — critic,  biog- 
rapher,  essay   and    novel    writer   as    well    as 

viii 


Foreword 

poet — he  never  lost  sight  of  his  desire  to  give 
expression  to  his  other  self. 

William  Sharp  was  born  in  1855  °f  Scottish 
parents  (he  died  at  Maniace,  Sicily,  in  1905), 
was  educated  at  the  Academy  and  University 
of  Glasgow,  and  spent  much  of  his  youth 
among  the  Gaelic-speaking  fisher-folk  and 
shepherds  of  the  West  Highlands.  After  a 
voyage  to  Australia  for  his  health,  he  settled 
in  London  in  1878  and  strove  to  make  for 
himself  a  place  in  the  profession  of  Literature. 
His  friendships  with  Rossetti,  Browning,  Pa- 
ter, Meredith  were  important  factors  in  his 
development;  and  later  he  came  into  valued 
personal  touch  with  W.  D.  Howells,  Richard 
Stoddart,  Edward  Clarence  Stedman,  and 
other  English  and  American  men  of  letters. 

In  1886,  not  long  after  his  marriage,  he  suf- 
fered a  serious  illness  and  a  protracted  conva- 
lescence. During  the  enforced  leisure  he 
dreamed  many  dreams,  saw  visions,  and  re- 
membered many  things  out  of  the  past  both 
personal  and  racial.  He  determined,  should  he 
recover,  to  bend  every  effort  to  ensure  the 
necessary  leisure  wherein  to  write  that  which 
lay  nearest  his  heart.  Accordingly  in  1889  he 
left  London  for  a  time.  The  first  outcome  of 
a  wonderful  winter  and  spring  in  Rome  was 
a  volume  of  verse,  in  unrhymed  metre,  Sospiri 

ix 


Foreword 

di  Roma,  privately  published  in  1891,  and  fol- 
lowed in  1893  by  a  volume  of  dramatic  inter- 
ludes, Vistas;  and,  though  both  are  a  blending 
of  the  two  elements  of  the  poet's  dual  nature, 
they  to  some  extent  foreshadowed  the  special 
phase  of  work  that  followed.  He  was  feeling 
his  way,  but  did  not  find  what  he  sought  until 
he  wrote  Pharais,  the  first  of  the  series  of 
books  which  he  issued  under  the  pseudonym 
of  "  Fiona  Macleod." 

In  the  sunshine  and  quiet  of  a  little  cot- 
tage in  Sussex ;  in  the  delight  in  "  the  green 
life  "  about  him ;  impelled  by  the  stimulus  of  a 
fine  friendship,  he  had  gone  back  to  the  in- 
fluences of  his  early  memories,  and  he  began  to 
give  expression  to  his  vision  of  the  Beauty  of 
the  World,  of  the  meaning  of  Life,  of  its  joys 
and  sorrows.  The  ultimate  characteristic  ex- 
pression of  his  "  dream  self  "  was  due  to  the 
inspiration  and  incentive  of  the  friend  to 
whom  he  dedicated  Pharais.  It  was,  as  he 
states  in  a  letter  to  me  written  in  1896,  "  to  her 
I  owe  my  development  as  '  Fiona  Macleod,' 
though  in  a  sense,  of  course,  that  began  long 
before  I  knew  her,  and  indeed  while  I  was  a 
child";  and  again,  "without  her  there  would 
never  have  been  any  '  Fiona  Macleod.'  " 

The  volumes  appeared  in  quick  succession. 
Pharais   in    1894;    The   Mountain   Lovers   in 


Foreword 

1895  ;  The  Sin-Eater  in  1895  ;  The  Washer  of 
the  Ford  in  1896;  Green  Fire  in  1896;  The 
Laughter  of  Peterkin  in  1897 ;  The  Dominion 
of  Dreams  in  1899;  and  a  volume  of  poems, 
From  the  Hills  of  Dream,  in  1896.  A  second 
serious  illness  intervened,  and  in  1900  he  pub- 
lished The  Divine  Adventure,  and  in  1904 
The  Winged  Destiny.  Of  his  two  dramas, 
written  in  1898-9,  The  House  of  Usna 
was  performed  by  the  Stage  Society  in  Lon- 
don in  1900,  and  was  issued  in  book  form  in 
America  by  Mr.  Mosher  in  1903;  The  Im- 
mortal Hour  was  published  in  America  in 
1907  and  in  England  in  1908.  The  volume  of 
nature  essays,  Where  the  Forest  Murmurs, 
and  an  enlarged  edition  of  From  the  Hills  of 
Dream  were  also  published  posthumously. 

For  twelve  years  the  name  of  "  Fiona  Mac- 
leod  "  was  one  of  the  mysteries  of  contempo- 
rary literature.  The  question  of  "  her  "  iden- 
tity provoked  discussion  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic;  conjecture  at  times  touched  the  truth 
and  threatened  disclosure.  But  the  secret  was 
loyally  guarded  by  the  small  circle  of  friends 
in  whom  he  had  confided.  "  '  Fiona  '  dies  "  he 
was  wont  to  say,  "  should  the  secret  be  found 
out."  These  friends  sympathised  with  and 
respected  the  author's  desire  to  create  for  him- 
self, by  means  of  a  pseudonym,  the  necessary 

xi 


Foreword 

seclusion  wherein  to  weave  his  dreams  and 
visions  into  outward  form;  to  write  a  series 
of  Celtic  poems,  romances  and  essays  differ- 
ent in  character  from  the  literary  and  critical 
work  with  which  William  Sharp  had  always 
approached  his  public. 

In  a  letter  to  an  American  friend  written  in 
1893,  before  he  had  decided  on  the  use  of  the 
pseudonym,  he  relates :  "  I  am  writing  a 
strange  Celtic  tale  called  Pharais,  wherein  the 
weird  charm  and  terror  of  the  nisfht  of  tragic 
significance  is  brought  home  to  the  reader  (or 
I  hope  so)  by  a  stretch  of  dew-sweet  moon- 
flowers  glimmering  white  through  the  mirk  of 
a  dust  laden  with  sea-mist.  Though  the  act- 
ual scene  was  written  a  year  ago  and  one  or 
other  of  the  first  parts  of  Pharais,  I  am  going 
to  rewrite  it."  In  1895  he  wrote  to  the 
same  friend  who  had  received  a  copy  of  the 
book,  and  who,  remembering  the  statement, 
was  puzzled  by  the  name  of  the  author :  "  Yes, 
Pharais  is  mine.  It  is  a  book  out  of  the 
core  of  my  heart.  .  .  .  Ignored  in  some  quar- 
ters, abused  in  others,  and  unheeded  by  the 
general  reader,  it  has  yet  had  a  reception  that 
has  made  me  deeply  glad.  It  is  the  beginning 
of  my  true  work.  Only  one  or  two  know  that 
I  am  '  Fiona  Macleod.' '  To  the  last  the  se- 
cret was  carefully  guarded   for  him,  until  he 

xii 


Foreword 

passed    "  from    the     dream    of     Beauty    to 

Beauty." 

In  the  author's  "  Foreword  "  to  the  Tauch- 
nitz  selection  of  the  Fiona  Macleod  Tales,  en- 
titled Wind  and  Wave,  he  has  set  down  in  ex- 
planation what  here  may  be  fittingly  reprinted. 
He  explains  that  in  certain  sections  are  tales 
of  the  old  Gaelic  and  Celtic-Scandinavian  life 
and  mythology  ;  that  in  others  there  is  a  blend- 
ing of  Paganism  and  Christianity;  in  others 
again  "  are  tales  of  the  dreaming  imagination 
having  their  base  in  old  mythology  or  in  a 
kindred  mythopoeic  source.  .  .  .  They  divide 
broadly  into  tales  of  the  world  that  was  and 
tales  of  the  world  that  is,  because  the  colour 
and  background  of  the  one  series  are  of  a  day 
that  is  past,  and  past  not  only  for  us,  but  for 
the  forgetting  race  itself;  while  the  colour  and 
background  of  the  other,  if  interchangeable,  is 
not  of  a  past,  but  only  of  a  passing  world 
which  lies  in  essential  truth  in  nature,  material 
or  spiritual,  the  truth  of  actual  reality,  and 
the  truth  of  imaginative  reality.  .  .  . 

"  Many  of  these  tales  are  of  the  grey  wan- 
dering wave  of  the  West,  and  through  each 
goes  the  wind  of  the  Gaelic  spirit,  which  every- 
where desires  infinitude,  but  in  the  penury  of 
things  as  they  are  turns  upon  itself  to  the  dim 
enchantment  of  dreams.    And  what  are  these, 

xiii 


Foreivord 

whether  of  a  single  heart  on  the  braes  of  sor- 
row or  of  the  weariness  of  unnumbered  minds 
in  the  maze  of  time  and  fate,  but  the  dreams 
of  the  wavering  images  of  dreams,  with  which 
for  a  thousand  years  the  Gael  has  met  the 
ignominies  and  sorrows  of  a  tragical  destiny; 
the  intangible  merchandise  which  he  contin- 
ually creates  and  continually  throws  away,  as 
the  May  wind  gathers  and  scatters  the  gold 
of  the  broom." 

Elizabeth  A.  Sharp. 


XIV 


PHARAIS 

A   ROMANCE    OF   THE    ISLES 


" Mithich  domh  triall  gu  tigh  Pharais." 
(It  is  time  for  me  to  go  up  unto  the  House  of  Paradise.) 

Muireadhach  Albannach. 

"How  many  beautiful  things  have  come  to  us  from  Pharais." 

"  Bileag-na-Toscuil." 


To 

E.  W.  R. 

Dear  friend, — While  you  gratify  me  by  your 
pleasure  in  this  inscription,  you  modestly  dep- 
recate the  dedication  to  you  of  this  story  of 
alien  life — of  that  unfamiliar  island-life  so 
alien  in  all  ways  from  the  life  of  cities,  and, 
let  me  add,  from' that  of  the  great  mass  of  the 
nation  to  which,  in  the  communal  sense,  we 
both  belong.  But  in  the  Domhan-Tbir  of 
friendship  there  are  resting-places  where  all 
barriers  of  race,  training,  and  circumstance 
fall  away  in  dust.  At  one  of  these  places  of 
peace  we  met,  a  long  while  ago,  and  found 
that  we  loved  the  same  things,  and  in  the  same 
way.  You  have  been  in  the  charmed  West 
yourself;  have  seen  the  gloom  and  shine  of 
the  mountains  that  throw  their  shadow  on  the 
sea:  have  heard  the  wave  whisper  along  that 
haunted  shore  which  none  loves  save  with  pas- 
sion, and  none,  loving,  can  bear  to  be  long 
parted  from.     You,  unlike  so  many  who  de- 

3 


Pharais 

light  only  in  the  magic  of  sunshine  and  cloud, 
love  this  dear  land  when  the  mists  drive  across 
the  hillsides,  and  the  brown  torrents  are  in 
spate,  and  the  rain  and  the  black  wind  make 
a  gloom  upon  every  loch,  and  fill  with  the  dusk 
of  storm  every  strath,  and  glen,  and  corric. 
Not  otherwise  can  one  love  it  aright :  "  Tir 
nam  Beann  s'nan  gleann'  s'nan  ghaisgach,"  as 
one  of  our  ancient  poets  calls  it — "  The  land 
of  hills,  and  glens,  and  heroes."  You,  too,  like 
Dcirdre  of  old,  have  looked  back  on  " Alba" 
and,  finding  it  passing  fair  and  dear,  have, 
with  the  Celtic  Helen,  said  in  your  heart — 

Inmain  tir  in  tir  ud  thoir, 
Alba  cona  lingantaibh!  .  .  . 

'  BelovSd  is  that  eastern  land, 
Alba  of  the  lochs." 

In  the  mythology  of  the  Gael  are  three  for- 
gotten deities,  children  of  Delbaith-Dana. 
These  are  Seithoir,  Teithoir,  and  Keithoir. 
One  dwells  throughout  the  sea,  and  beneath 
the  soles  of  the  feet  of  another  are  the  high- 
est clouds;  and  these  two  may  be  held  sacred 
for  the  beauty  they  weave  for  the  joy  of  eye 
and  ear.  But  now  that,  as  surely  none  may 
gainsay,  Keithoir  is  blind  and  weary,  let  us 
worship  at  his  fane  rather  than  give  all  our 
homage  to  the  others.    For  Keithoir  is  the  god 

4 


Dedication 

of  the  earth;  dark-eyed,  shadozvy  brother  of 
Pan;  and  his  fane  is  among  the  lonely  glens 
and  mountains  and  lonelier  isles  of  "  Alba  cona 
lingantaibh."  It  is  because  you  and  I  are  of 
the  children  of  Kcithoir  that  I  wished  to  grace 
my  book  with  your  name. 

The  most  nature-wrought  of  the  English 
poets  hoped  he  zvas  not  too  late  in  transmuting 
into  his  own  verse  something  of  the  beautiful 
mythology  of  Greece.  But  while  Keats  spun 
from  the  inexhaustible  loom  of  genius,  and  I 
am  but  an  obscure  chronicler  of  obscure 
things,  is  it  too  presumptuous  of  me  to  hope 
that  here,  and  mayhap  elsewhere,  I,  the  latest 
comer  among  older  and  worthier  celebrants 
and  co-enthusiasts,  likewise  may  do  something, 
howsoever  little,  to  win  a  further  measure  of 
heed  for,  and  more  intimate  sympathy  with, 
that  old  charm  and  stellar  beauty  of  Celtic 
thought  and  imagination,  now,  alas,  like  so 
many  other  lovely  things,  growing  more  and 
more  remote,  discoverable  seldom  in  books, 
and  elusive  amid  the  sayings  and  oral  legends 
and  fragmentary  songs  of  a  passing  race? 

A  passing  race:  and  yet,  mayhap  not  so. 
Change  is  inevitable;  and  even  if  we  could 
hear  the  wind  blowing  along  Magh  Mell — the 
Plain  of  Honey — we  might  list  to  a  new  note, 

5 


Pharais 

bitter-sweet:  and,  doubtless,  the  waves  falling 
over  the  green  roof  of  Tir-na-Thonn'  murmur 
drowsily  of  a  shifting  of  the  veils  of  circum- 
stance, which  Kcithoir  weaves  blindly  in  his 
dark  place.  But  what  was,  surely  is;  and  what 
is,  surely  may  yet  be.  The  form  changes;  the 
essential  abides.  As  the  saying  goes  among 
the  isle-folk:  The  shadow  fleets  beneath  the 
cloud  driven  by  the  wind,  and  the  cloud  falls 
in  rain  or  is  sucked  of  the  sun,  but  the  wind 
sways  this  way  and  that  for  ever.  It  may  well 
be  that  the  Celtic  Dream  is  not  doomed  to  be- 
come a  memory  merely.  Were  it  so,  there 
would  be  less  joy  in  all  Springs  to  come,  less 
hope  in  all  brown  Autumns;  and  the  cold  of 
a  deathlier  chill  in  all  Winters  still  dreaming 
by  the  Pole.  For  the  Celtic  joy  in  the  life  of 
Nature — the  Celtic  vision — is  a  thing  apart:  it 
is  a  passion;  a  visionary  rapture.  There  is 
none  like  it  among  the  peoples  of  our  race. 

Meanwhile,  there  are  a  few  remote  spots,  as 
yet  inviolate.  Here,  Anima  Celtica  still  lives 
and  breathes  and  hath  her  being.  She  dreams; 
but  if  she  awake,  it  may  not  necessarily  be  to 
a  deepening  twilight,  or  to  a  forlorn  passage 
to  Tir  Tairngire — that  Land  of  Promise  whose 
borders  shine  with  the  loveliness  of  all  for- 
feited, or  lost,  or  banished  dreams  and  realities 
of  Beauty.    It  may  be  that  she  will  arise  to  a 

6 


Dedication 

wider  sway,  over  a  disfrontiercd  realm.  Blue 
are  the  hills  that  are  far  from  us.  Dear  say- 
ing of  the  Gael,  whose  soul  as  well  as  whose 
heart  speaks  therein.  Far  hills  recede,  re- 
cede I  Dim  veils  of  blue,  woven  from  within 
and  without,  haunt  us,  allure  us,  always,  al- 
zvays ! 

But  now,  before  I  send  you  my  last  zvord  of 
greeting,  let  me  add  (rather  for  other  readers 
than  for  you,  who  already  knozv  of  them)  a 
word  concerning  the  Gaelic  rimes  interpolated 
in  Pharais.* 

The  "  Urnuigh  Smalaidh  an  Teine  "  (p.  42) 
and  "  Au  t  Altachadh  Leapa  "  (p.  4s) — re- 
spectively a  prayer  to  be  said  at  covering  up 
the  peat-fire  at  bed-time  and  a  Rest-blessing 
— are  relics  of  ancient  Celtic  folklore  which 
were  sent  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Alexander  Stewart, 
of  "Nether  Lochaber"  fame,  by  Mr.  A.  A. 
Carmichael,  of  South  Uist,  who  took  them 
down  from  the  recitation  of  a  man  living  at 
Iocar  of  Uist.  From  the  same  Hebridcan 
source  came  the  "  Rann  Buacbailleac,"  or  rune 
to  be  said  over  cattle  when  led  to  pasture  at 
morn,  introduced  at  p.  49.     The  English  ver- 

*  A  slightly  anglicised  lection  of  the  Gaelic  word  Paras  =  Para- 
dise. Heaven.^  "Pharais."  properly,  is  the  genitive  and  dative  case 
of  Paras,  as  in  the  line  from  Muireadhach  Albannach.  quoted  after 
the  title  page.  "  Mithich  domh  trial]  ku  tigh  Pharais" — "  //  is  time 
for  me  to  go  up  unto  the  House  of  Paradise." 


Pharais 

sions,  by  Dr.  Stewart,  appeared  first  in  "  The 
Inverness  Courier,"  over  twenty  years  ago. 
There  are  several  versions  current  of  the  au- 
thentic incident  of  the  innocent  old  woman 
held  to  be  a  witch,  and  of  her  prayer.  I  weave 
into  my  story  the  episode  as  I  heard  it  many 
years  ago,  though  with  the  rune  rescued  from 
oblivion  by  Dr.  Stewart,  rather  than  with  the 
longer  and  commonly  corrupted  version  still 
to  be  heard  by  the  croft- fire  in  many  localities, 
all  "  the  far  cry  "  from  the  Ord  of  Sutherland 
to  the  Rhinns  of  Islay.  The  "  Laoidh  Mhna- 
than  " — the  Chant  of  Women,  at  p.  ioo — is  not 
ancient  in  the  actual  form  here  given,  which 
is  from  an  unpublished  volume  of  "  Orain' 
Spioradail." 

The  sweetest-voiced  of  the  younger  Irish 
singers  of  to-day  has  spoken  of  the  Celtic  Tzvi- 
light.  A  tzvilight  it  is;  but,  if  night  follow 
gloaming,  so  also  does  dawn  succeed  night. 
Meanwhile,  twilight  voices  are  sweet,  if  faint 
and  far,  and  linger  lovingly  in  the  ear. 

There  is  another  Paras  than  that  seen  of 
Alastair  of  Innisrbn — the  Tir-Nan-Oigh  of 
friendship.  Therein  we  both  have  seen  beau- 
tiful visions  and  dreamed  dreams.  Take,  then, 
out  of  my  heart,  this  book  of  vision  and  dream. 

Fiona  Macleod. 
8 


"  O  bihag-geal, 
O  bileag-na-Toscuil,    bileag  Pharais, 
O  tha  e  boidheach! 
Tha  e  boidheach!" 


Pharais 


It  was  midway  in  the  seventh  month  of  her 
great  joy  that  the  child  moved,  while  a  rap- 
ture leaped  to  her  heart,  within  the  womb 
of  Lora,  daughter  of  the  dead  Norman  Mac- 
lean, minister  of  Innisron,  in  the  Outer  Isles. 

On  the  same  eve  the  cruel  sorrow  came  to 
her  that  had  lain  waiting  in  the  dark  place 
beyond  the  sunrise. 

Alastair,  her  so  dearly  beloved,  had  gone, 
three  days  earlier,  by  the  Western  Isles 
steamer,  to  the  port  of  Greenock,  thence  to 
fare  to  Glasgow,  to  learn  from  a  great  pro- 
fessor of  medicine  concerning  that  which  so 
troubled  him — both  by  reason  of  what  the 
islesmen  whispered  among  themselves,  and 
for  what  he  felt  of  his  own  secret  pain  and 
apprehension. 

There  was  a  rocky  spur  on  Innisron,  whence 
the  watcher  could  scan  the  headland  round 
which    the    Clansman    would    come    on    her 

II 


Pharais 

thrice-weekly  voyage:  in  summer,  while  the 
isles  were  still  steeped  in  the  yellow  shine ;  in 
autumn,  when  the  sky  seaward  was  purple,  and 
every  boulder  in  each  islet  was  as  transparent 
amber  amid  a  vapour  of  amethyst  rising  from 
bases  and  hollow  caverns  of  a  cold  day-dawn 
blue. 

Hither  Lora  had  come  in  the  wane  of  the 
afternoon.  The  airs  were  as  gentle  and  of  as 
sweet  balmy  breath  as  though  it  were  Summer- 
sleep  rather  than  only  the  extreme  of  May. 
The  girl  looked,  shading  her  eyes,  seaward ; 
and  saw  the  blue  of  the  midmost  sky  laid  as  a 
benediction  upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  but 
paler  by  a  little,  as  the  darkest  turquoise  is  pale 
beside  the  lightest  sapphire.  She  lifted  her 
eyes  from  the  pearl-blue  of  the  horizon  to  the 
heart  of  the  zenith,  and  saw  there  the  soul  of 
Ocean  gloriously  arisen.  Beneath  the  weedy 
slabs  of  rock  whereon  she  stood,  the  green  of 
the  sea-moss  lent  a  yellow  gleam  to  the  slow- 
waving  dead-man's-hair  which  the  tide  laved 
to  and  fro  sleepily,  as  though  the  bewitched 
cattle  of  Seumas  the  seer  were  drowsing 
there  unseen,  known  only  of  their  waving 
tails,  swinging  silently  as  the  bulls  dreamed  of 
the  hill-pastures  they  should  see  no  more. 
Yellow-green  in  the  sunlit  spaces  as  the  sea- 
hair    was,    it   was    dark   against   the   shifting 

12 


Pharais 

green  light  of  the  water  under  the  rocks,  and 
till  so  far  out  as  the  moving  blue  encroached. 

To  Lora's  right  ran  a  curved  inlet,  ending  in 
a  pool  fringed  with  dappled  fronds  of  sea- 
fern,  mare's-tails,  and  intricate  bladder-wrack. 
In  the  clear  hollow  were  visible  the  wave-worn 
stones  at  the  bottom,  many  crowned  with 
spreading  anemones,  with  here  and  there  a 
star-fish  motionlessly  agleam,  or  a  cloud  of 
vanishing  shrimps  above  the  patches  of  sand, 
or  hermit  crabs  toiling  cumbrously  from  peril- 
ous shelter  to  more  sure  havens.  Looking 
down  she  saw  herself,  as  though  her  wraith 
had  suddenly  crept  therein  and  was  waiting  to 
whisper  that  which,  once  uttered  and  once 
heard,  would  mean  disunion  no  more. 

Slipping  softly  to  her  knees,  she  crouched 
over  the  pool.  Long  and  dreamily  she  gazed 
into  its  depths.  What  was  this  phantasm,  she 
wondered,  that  lay  there  in  the  green-gloom  as 
though  awaiting  her?  Was  it,  in  truth,  the 
real  Lora,  and  she  but  the  wraith  ? 

How  strangely  expressionless  was  that  pale 
face,  looking  upward  with  so  straightforward 
a  mien,  yet  with  so  stealthy  an  understanding, 
with  dark  abysmal  eyes  filled  with  secrecy  and 
dread,  if  not,  indeed,  with  something  of 
menace. 

A  thrill  of  fear  went  to  the  girl's  heart.    A 

13 


Pharais 

mass  of  shadow  had  suddenly  obscured  her 
image  in  the  water.  Her  swift  fancy  sug- 
gested that  her  wraith  had  abruptly  shrouded 
herself,  fearful  of  revelation.  The  next  mo- 
ment she  realised  that  her  own  wealth  of  dark 
hair  had  fallen  down  her  neck  and  upon  her 
shoulders — hair  dusky  as  twilight,  but  inter- 
wrought  with  threads  of  bronze  that,  in  the 
shine  of  fire  or  sun,  made  an  evasive  golden 
gleam. 

She  shuddered  as  she  perceived  the  eyes  of 
her  other  self  intently  watching  her  through 
that  cloudy  shadow.  A  breath  came  from  the 
pool,  salt  and  shrewd,  and  cold  as  though 
arisen  from  those  sea-sepulchres  whence  the 
fish  steal  their  scales  of  gold  and  silver.  A 
thin  voice  was  in  her  ears  that  was  not  the 
lap  of  the  tide  or  the  cluck  of  water  gurgling 
in  and  out  of  holes  and  crannies. 

With   a   startled   gesture   she   shrank  back. 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  "  she  cried;  but 
the  sound  of  her  own  awed  voice  broke  the 
spell :  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  an  eddy 
of  wind  came  circling  over  the  rock-bastions 
of  the  isle,  and,  passing  as  a  tremulous  hand 
over  the  pool,  ruffled  it  into  a  sudden  silvery 
sheen. 

With  a  blithe  laugh,  Lora  rose  to  her  feet. 
The  sunlight  dwelt  about  her  as  though  she 

14 


Pharais 

were  the  sweetest  flower  in  that  lost  garden  of 
Aodh  the  poet,  where  the  streams  are  un- 
spanned rainbows  flowing  to  the  skyey  cauld- 
rons below  the  four  quarters,  and  where  every 
white  flower  has  at  dusk  a  voice,  a  whisper, 
of  surpassing  sweetness. 

"  O  Alastair,  Alastair !  "  she  cried,  "  will  the 
boat  never  be  coming  that  is  to  bring  you  back 
to  me !  " 

Not  a  black  spot  anywhere,  of  wherry  or 
steamer,  caught  the  leaping  gaze.  Like  a  bird 
it  moved  across  the  sea2  and  found  no  object 
whereon  to  alight. 

The  Clansman  was  often  late ;  but  her  smoke 
could  be  seen  across  Dunmore  Head  nigh 
upon  quarter  of  an  hour  before  her  prow 
combed  the  froth  from  the  Sound. 

With  a  sigh,  the  girl  moved  slowly  back 
by  the  way  she  had  come.  Over  and  over, 
as  she  went,  she  sang,  crooningly,  lines 
from  a  sweet  song  of  the  Gael,  O,  Till,  a 
Leannain! 

As  she  passed  a  place  of  birchen  under- 
growth and  tall  bracken,  she  did  not  see  an 
old  man,  seated,  grey  and  motionless  as  a 
heron.  He  looked  at  her  with  the  dull  eyes  of 
age,  though  there  was  pity  in  them  and  some- 
thing of  a  bewildered  awe. 

"  Ay,"     he     muttered     below    his     breath, 

15 


Pharais 

"  though  ye  sing  for  your  dear  one  to  return, 
ye  know  not  what  I  know.  Have  I  not  had 
the  vision  of  him  with  the  mist  growin'  up  an' 
up,  an'  seen  the  green  grass  turn  to  black 
mools  at  his  feet  ?  " 

Lora,  unwitting,  passed;  and  he  heard  her 
voice  wax  and  wane,  as  falling  water  in  a  glen 
where  the  baffled  wind  among  the  trees  soughs 
now  this  way  and  now  that: — 

"Mo  chridhe-sa  !    's  tusa  'bhios  truagh,  'bhios  truagh, 
Mur  pill  is'  'thog  oirre  gu  cluaidh,  gu  cluaidh  !" 

She  went  past  the  boulder  on  the  path  that  hid 
the  clachan  from  view,  and  within  a  net-throw 
of  which  was  the  byre  of  Mrs.  Maclean's 
cottage,  where,  since  her  father's  death,  she 
had  dwelt. 

A  tall,  gaunt,  elderly  woman,  with  hair  of 
the  ivory  white  of  the  snowberry,  was  about 
to  pass  from  behind  the  byre  with  a  burthen 
of  fresh  bracken  for  Ian  Maclean's  bed — for 
the  old  islesman  abode  by  the  way  of  his 
fathers,  and  was  content  to  sleep  on  a  deerskin 
spread  upon  fresh-gathered  fern — when  she 
caught  sight  of  Lora.  She  stopped,  and  with 
an  eager  glance  looked  at  the  girl:  then  be- 
yond, and  finally  seaward,  with  her  long, 
thin,  brown  arm  at  an  angle,  and  her  hand 

16 


Pharais 

curved  over  her  eyes  against  the  glare  of  the 
water. 

Silence  was  about  her  as  a  garment.  Every 
motion  of  her,  even,  suggested  a  deep  calm. 
Mrs.  Maclean  spoke  seldom,  and  when  she  said 
aught  it  was  in  a  low  voice,  sweet  and  serene, 
but  as  though  it  came  from  a  distance  and  in 
the  twilight.  She  was  of  the  shadow,  as  the 
islesmen  say ;  and  strangers  thought  her  to  be 
austere  in  look  and  manner,  though  that  was 
only  because  she  gazed  long  before  she  replied 
to  one  foreign  to  her  and  her  life:  having  the 
Gaelic,  too,  so  much  more  natively  than  the 
English,  that  oftentimes  she  had  to  translate 
the  one  speech  into  the  other  nearer  to  her : 
that,  and  also  because  the  quiet  of  the  sea  was 
upon  her,  as  often  with  hill-folk  there  is  a 
hushed  voice  and  mien. 

Lora  knew  what  was  in  her  mind  when  she 
saw  her  gaze  go  seaward  and  then  sweep 
hither  and  thither  like  a  hawk  ere  it  set- 
tles. 

"  The  boat  is  not  yet  in  sight,  Mary ;  she  is 
late,"  she  said  simply:  adding  immediately.  "  I 
have  come  back  to  go  up  Cnoc-an-Iolair ;  from 
there  I'll  see  the  smoke  of  the  Clansman 
sooner.     She  is  often  as  late  as  this." 

Mrs.  Maclean  looked  compassionately  at  the 
girl. 

17 


Pharais 

"  Mayhap  the  Clansman  will  not  be  coming 
this  way  at  all  to-night,  Lora.  She  may  be 
going  by  Kyle-na-Sith." 

A  flush  came  into  Lora's  face.  Her  eyes 
darkened,  as  a  tarn  under  rain. 

"  And  for  why  should  she  not  be  sailing  this 
way  to-night,  when  Alastair  is  coming  home, 
and  is  to  be  here  before  sundown?" 

"  He  may  have  been  unable  to  leave.  If  he 
does  not  come  to-day,  he  will  doubtless  be  here 
to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow !  O  Mary,  Mary,  have  you 
ever  loved,  that  you  can  speak  like  that? 
Think  what  Alastair  went  away  for!  Surely 
you  do  not  know  how  the  pain  is  at  my 
heart?"    . 

"  Truly,  mitirnean.  But  it  is  not  well  to  be 
sure  of  that  which  may  easily  happen  other- 
wise." 

"  To-morrow,  indeed !  Why,  Mary,  if  the 
Clansman  does  not  come  by  this  evening,  and 
has  gone  as  you  say  by  Kyle-na-Sith,  she  will 
not  be  here  again  till  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row !  " 

"  Alastair  could  come  by  the  other  way,  by 
the  Inverary  boat,  and  thence  by  the  herring- 
steamer  from  Dunmore,  after  he  had  reached 
it  from  Uan  Point  or  by  way  of  Craig-Sion- 
nach." 

18 


Pharais 

"  That  may  be,  of  course ;  but  I  think  not. 
I  cannot  believe  the  boat  will  not  be  here  to- 
night." 

Both  stood  motionless,  with  their  hands 
shading  their  eyes,  and  looking  across  the 
wide  Sound,  where  the  tide  bubbled  and 
foamed  against  the  slight  easterly  wind-drift. 
The  late  sunlight  fell  full  upon  them,  working 
its  miracle  of  gold  here  and  there,  and  making 
the  skin  like  a  flower.  The  outline  of  each 
figure  stood  out  darkly  clear  as  against  a 
screen  of  amber. 

For  a  time  neither  spoke.  At  last,  with  a 
faint  sigh,  Mrs.  Maclean  turned. 

"  Did  you  see  Ian  on  your  way,  Lora-mo- 
ghraidhf" 

"  No." 

"  Do  not  have  speech  with  the  old  man  to- 
night, dear  one.     He  is  not  himself." 

"  Has  he  had  the  sight  again  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Lora." 

Again  a  silence  fell.  The  girl  stood  mood- 
ily, with  her  eyes  on  the  ground :  the  elder 
watched  her  with  a  steadfast,  questioning 
look. 

"  Mary !  " 

Mrs.  Maclean  made  no  reply,  but  her  eyes 
brought  Lora's  there  with  the  answer  that  was 
in  them. 

19 


Pharais 

"  Ian  has  never  had  the  sight  again  upon 
.  .  .  upon  Alastair,  has  he?" 

"  How  can  I  say?  " 

"  But  do  you  know  if  he  has?  If  you  do  not 
tell  me,  I  will  ask  him." 

"  I  asked  him  that  only  yester-morning.  He 
shook  his  head." 

"  Do  you  believe  he  can  foresee  all  that  is  to 
happen?  " 

"  No.  Those  who  have  the  vision  do  not 
read  all  that  is  in  the  future.  Only  God  knows. 
They  can  see  the  thing  of  peril,  ay,  and  the 
evil  of  accident,  and  even  Death — and  what  is 
more,  the  nearness  and  sometimes  the  way  of 
it.  But  no  man  sees  more  than  this — unless, 
indeed,  he  has  been  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh." 

Mrs.  Maclean  spoke  the  last  words  almost  in 
a  whisper,  and  as  though  she  said  them  in  a 
dream. 

'  Unless  he  has  been  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh, 
Mary?" 

"  So  it  is  said.  Our  people  believe  that  the 
Land  of  Eternal  Youth  lies  far  yonder  across 
the  sea;  but  Aodh,  the  poet,  is  right  when  he 
tells  us  that  that  land  is  lapped  by  no  green 
waves  such  as  we  know  here,  and  that  those 
who  go  thither  do  so  in  sleep,  or  in  vision,  or 
when  God  has  filled  with  dusk  the  house  of 
the  brain." 

20 


Pharais 

"  And  when  a  man  has  been  to  Tir-na- 
h'Oigh  in  sleep,  or  in  dream,  or  in  mind-dark, 
does  he  see  there  what  shall  soon  happen 
here?" 

"  It  is  said.' 

"Has  Ian  been  beyond  the  West?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  what  he  sees  when  he  has  the  sight 
upon  him  is  not  bcannaichtc:  is  not  a  thing 
out  of  heaven?  " 

"  I  cannot  say.     I  think  not." 

"  Mary,  is  it  the  truth  you  are  now  telling 
me?" 

A  troubled  expression  came  into  the  wom- 
an's face,  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  And  is  it  the  truth,  Mary,  that  Ian  has  not 
had  the  sight  upon  Alastair  since  he  went 
away — that  he  did  not  have  it  last  night  or 
this  morning?  " 

Lora  leaned  forward  in  her  anxiety.  She 
saw  that  in  her  companion's  eyes  which  gave 
her  the  fear.  But  the  next  moment  Mrs.  Mac- 
lean smiled. 

"I  too  have  the  sight,  Lora-mo-ghraidli ; 
and  shall  I  be  telling  you  that  which  it  will  be 
giving  you  joy  to  hear?  " 

"Ay,  surely,  Mary!" 

"  Then  I  think  you  will  soon  be  in  the  arms 
of  him  you  love  " — and,  with  a  low  laugh,  she 

21 


Pharais 

pointed  across  the  sea  to  where  a  film  of  blue- 
grey  smoke  rose  over  the  ridge  of  Dunmore 
headland. 

"Ah,  the  Clansman!"  cried  Lora,  with  a 
gasp  of  joy:  and  the  next  moment  she  was 
moving  down  the  path  again  toward  the  little 
promontory. 

The  wind  had  risen  slightly.  The  splash, 
splash,  of  the  sunny  green  waves  against  each 
other,  the  lapping  of  the  blue  water  upon  the 
ledges  to  the  east,  the  stealthy  whisper  where 
the  emerald-green  tide-flow  slipped  under  the 
hollowed  sandstone,  the  spurtle  of  the  sea- 
wrack,  the  flashing  fall  and  foam-send  of  the 
gannets,  the  cries  of  the  gulls,  the  slap  of  wind 
as  it  came  over  the  forehead  of  the  isle  and 
struck  the  sea  a  score  of  fathoms  outward — all 
gave  her  a  sense  of  happiness.  The  world 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  young.  The 
exultant  Celtic  joy  stood  over  against  the 
brooding  Celtic  shadow,  and  believed  the 
lances  of  the  sunlight  could  keep  at  bay  all 
the  battalions  of  gloom. 

The  breeze  was  variable,  for  the  weft  of 
blue  smoke  which  suddenly  curled  round  the 
bend  of  Dunmore  had  its  tresses  blown  sea- 
ward, though  where  Lora  stood  the  wind  came 
from  the  west,  and  even  caused  a  white  foam 
along  the  hither  marge  of  the  promontory. 

22 


Pharais 

With  eager  eyes  she  watched  the  vessel 
round  the  point.  After  all,  it  was  just  possible 
she  might  not  be  the  Clansman. 

But  the  last  sunglow  shone  full  against 
Dunmore  and  upon  the  bows  of  the  steamer 
as  she  swung  to  the  helm;  and  the  moment 
the  red  funnel  changed  from  a  dusky  russet 
into  a  flame  of  red,  Lora's  new  anxiety  was 
assuaged.  She  knew  every  line  of  the  boat, 
and  already  she  felt  Alastair's  kisses  on  her 
lips.  The  usual  long  summer-gloaming 
darkened  swiftly ;  for  faint  films  of  coming 
change  were  being  woven  across  the  span  of 
the  sky  from  mainland  oceanward.  Even  as 
the  watcher  on  Innisron  stood,  leaning  for- 
ward in  her  eager  outlook,  she  saw  the  ex- 
treme of  the  light  lift  upward  as  though  it 
were  the  indrawn  shaft  of  a  fan.  The  con- 
tours of  the  steamer  grew  confused :  a  velvety 
duskiness  overspread  Dunmore  foreland. 

The  sky  overhead  had  become  a  vast  lift  of 
perishing  yellow — a  spent  wave  of  daffodil  by 
the  north  and  by  the  south;  westward,  of 
lemon,  deepening  into  a  luminous  orange  glow 
shot  with  gold  and  crimson,  and  rising  as  an 
exhalation  from  hollow  cloud-sepulchres  of 
amethyst,  straits  of  scarlet,  and  immeasurable 
spaces  of  dove-grey  filled  with  shallows  of  the 
most  pale  sea-green. 

23 


Pharais 

Lora  stood  as  though  wrought  in  marble. 
She  had  seen  that  which  made  the  blood  leap 
from  her  heart,  and  surge  in  her  ears,  and 
clamour  against  her  brain. 

No  pennon  flew  at  the  peak  of  the  steamer's 
foremast.  This  meant  there  was  neither  pas- 
senger nor  freight  to  be  landed  at  Innisron,  so 
that  there  was  no  need  for  the  ferry. 

She  could  scarcely  believe  it  possible  that 
the  Clansman  could  come,  after  all,  and  yet 
not  bring  Alastair  back  to  her.  It  seemed  ab- 
surd :  some  ill-timed  by-play ;  nay,  a  wanton 
cruelty.  There  must  be  some  mistake,  she 
thought,  as  she  peered  hungrily  into  the  sea- 
dusk. 

Surely  the  steamer  was  heading  too  much  to 
the  northward  !  With  a  cry,  Lora  instinctively 
stretched  her  arms  toward  the  distant  vessel; 
but  no  sound  came  from  her  lips,  for  at  that 
moment  a  spurt  of  yellow  flame  rent  the  gray 
gloom,  as  a  lantern  was  swung  aloft  to  the 
mast-head. 

In  a  few  seconds  she  would  know  all;  for 
whenever  the  Clansman  was  too  late  for  her 
flag-signal  to  be  easily  seen,  she  showed  a 
green  light  a  foot  or  so  beneath  the  yel- 
low. 

Lora  heard  the  heavy  pulse  of  the  engines, 
the  churn  of  the  beaten  waves,  even  the  delir- 

24 


Pharais 

ious  surge  and  suction  as  the  spent  water  was 
driven  along  the  hull  and  poured  over  and 
against  the  helm  ere  it  was  swept  into  the 
wake  that  glimmered  white  as  a  snow-wreath. 
So  wrought  was  she  that,  at  the  same  time, 
she  was  keenly  conscious  of  the  rapid  tweet- 
tweet-tzveet-tweet-tweet  —  o-o-h  sweet!  — 
sweet!  of  a  yellow-hammer  among  the  whin 
close  by,  and  of  the  strange,  mournful  cry  of 
,  an  oyster-opener  as  it  flew  with  devious 
swoops  toward  some  twilight  eyrie. 

The  throb  of  the  engines — the  churn  of  the 
beaten  waves — the  sough  of  the  swirling  yeast 
— even  the  churning,  swirling,  under-tumult, 
and  through  it  and  over  it  the  heavy  pulse,  the 
deep  panting  rhythmic  throb :  this  she  heard, 
as  it  were  the  wrought  surge  of  her  own  blood. 

Would  the  green  light  never  swing  up  to 
that  yellow  beacon? 

A  minute  passed :  two  minutes :  three !  It 
was  clear  that  the  steamer  had  no  need  to  call 
at  Innisron.  She  was  coming  up  the  mid  of 
the  Sound,  and,  unless  the  ferry-light  sig- 
nalled to  her  to  draw  near,  she  would  keep 
her  course  north-westward. 

Suddenly  Lora  realised  this.  At  the  same 
time  there  flashed  into  her  mind  the  idea  that 
perhaps  Alastair  was  on  board  after  all,  but 
that   he    was    ill,    and   had    forgotten    to   tell 

25 


Pharais 

the  captain  of  his  wish  to  land  by  the  island 
ferry. 

She  turned,  and,  forgetful  or  heedless  of 
her  condition,  moved  swiftly  from  ledge  to 
ledge,  and  thence  by  the  path  to  where,  in  the 
cove  beyond  the  clachan,  the  ferry-boat  lay  on 
the  tide-swell,  moored  by  a  rope  fastened  to 
an  iron  clank  fixed  in  a  boulder. 

"  Ian !  Ian !  "  she  cried,  as  she  neared  the 
cove;  but  at  first  she  saw  no  one,  save  Mrs. 
Maclean,  black  against  the  fire-glow  from  her 
cottage.     "  Ian  !     Ian !  " 

A  dark  figure  rose  from  beside  the  ferry- 
shed. 

"Is  that  you,  Ian?  Am  bheil  am  bhata 
deas?  Is  the  boat  ready?  Bi  ealamh!  bi 
ealamh!  mach  am  bhata:  quick!  quick!  out 
with  the  boat !  " 

In  her  eager  haste  she  spoke  both  in  the 
Gaelic  and  the  English :  nor  did  she  notice  that 
the  old  man  did  not  answer  her,  or  make  any 
sign  of  doing  as  she  bade  him. 

"Oh,  Ian,  bi  ealamh!  bi  ealamh!  Faigh 
am  bhata  deas!  rach  a  stigh  do'n  bhata!" 

Word  for  word,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  people, 
he  answered  her : — 

"Why  is  it  that  I  should  be  quick?  Why 
should  I  be  getting  the  boat  ready  ?  For  what 
should  I  be  going  into  the  boat  ?  " 

26 


Pharais 

"The  Clansman!  Do  you  not  see  her? 
Bi  ealamh;  bi  ealamh!  or  she  will  go  past  us 
like  a  dream." 

"  She  has  flown  no  flag,  she  has  no  green 
light  at  the  mast.  No  one  will  be  coming 
ashore,  and  no  freight ;  and  there  is  no  freight 
to  go  from  here,  and  no  one  who  wants  the 
ferry  unless  it  be  yourself,  Lora  nighcan  Tor- 
maid!  " 

"Alastair  is  there:  he  was  to  come  by  the 
steamer  to-day !  Be  quick,  Ian !  Do  you  hear 
me?" 

"  I  hear,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  slowly 
moved  toward  the  boulder  to  his  left,  unloosed 
the  rope  from  the  iron  clank,  and  drew  the  boat 
into  the  deep  water  alongside  the  landing-ledge. 

"There  is  no  good  in  going  out,  Lora  bhan! 
The  wind  is  rising:  ay,  I  tell  you,  the  wind 
goes  high :  we  may  soon  hear  the  howling  of 
the  sea-dogs." 

But  Lora,  taking  no  notice,  had  sprung  into 
the  boat,  and  was  already  adjusting  the  long 
oars  to  the  old-fashioned  wooden  thole-pins. 
Ian  followed,  grumblingly  repeating,  "  Tha 
gaoth  ruhbr  am!     Tha  coltas  stair m'  air!" 

Once,  however,  that  the  wash  of  the  sea 
caught  the  wherry,  and  the  shrewd  air  sent 
the  salt  against  their  faces,  the  old  man  ap- 
peared to  realise  that  the  girl  was  in  earnest. 

27 


Pharais 

Standing,  he  laid  hold  of  the  sloped  mast,  to 
steady  himself  against  the  swaying  as  the  tide 
sucked  at  the  keel  and  the  short  waves  slapped 
against  the  bows,  and  then  gave  a  quick  cal- 
culating glance  seaward  and  at  the  advancing 
steamer. 

Rapidly  he  gave  his  directions  to  Lora  to 
take  the  helm  and  to  keep  the  boat  to  wind- 
ward : 

"  Gabh  an  sthtir,  Lora:  cum  ris  a'  ghaoth  i!  " 

The  next  moment  the  long  oars  were  moving 
slowly,  but  powerfully,  through  the  water,  and 
the  ferry-boat  drove  into  the  open,  and  there 
lay  over  a  little  with  the  double  swing  of  wind 
and  tide. 

The  gloaming  was  now  heavy  upon  the  sea ; 
for  a  mist  had  come  up  with  the  dipping  of 
the  sun,  and  thickened  the  dusk. 

Suddenly  Ian  called  to  Lora  to  hold  the 
oars.  As  soon  as  she  had  caught  them,  and 
was  steadying  the  boat  in  the  cross  surge  of 
the  water,  he  lifted  a  lantern  from  under  the 
narrow  fore-deck,  lighted  the  wick  below  the 
seat  (after  the  wind  had  twice  blown  the  flame 
into  the  dark),  and  then,  gripping  the  mast, 
waved  the  signal  to  and  fro  overhead. 

It  was  well  he  thought  of  this,  for  the 
steamer  was  going  at  full  speed,  and  would 
not  have  slackened. 

28 


Pharais 

In  a  few  minutes  thereafter  the  heavy  ster- 
torous throb  and  splash  was  close  by  them, 
while  the  screw  revolved  now  at  quarter- 
speed. 

A  hoarse  voice  came  from  the  Clansman: 

"  Ferry  ahoy !  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ta  ferry  she  will  pe/'  called  back 
Ian  in  the  quaint  English  of  which  he  was  so 
proud :  though  he  thought  the  language  a  poor, 
thin  speech,  and  fit  only  for  folk  who  never 
left  the  mainland. 

"  What  are  ye  oot  for,  Ian?  Ha'  ye  ony 
body  comin'  aboard  ?  " 

"  We've  come  out  for  Mr.  Alastair  Mac- 
leod,"  Lora  broke  in  eagerly :  "  we've  come  to 
take  him  off." 

"  Hoots,  my  girl,  what  for  d'ye  fash  yersel 
an'  us  too  for  the  like  o'  sic  havers.  There's 
no  one  aboard  who  wants  to  land  at  Innisron : 
an'  as  for  Alastair  Macleod,  he  was  na'  on  the 
Clansman  when  we  left  Greenock,  so  he  could 
na'  well  be  on  her  the  now !  As  for  you,  Ian 
Maclean,  are  ye  doited,  when,  wi'  neither  flag 
nor  green  light  aloft,  ye  stop  the  steamer  like 
this,  a'  for  a  lassie's  haverin' !  Ye'll  hear  o' 
this  yet,  my  man,  I'se  telling  ye !  Auld  f ule 
that  ye  are,  awa'  wi'  ye !  keep  aff  the  wash  o' 
the  steamer:  .  .  .  an'  by  the  Lord,  I'll  .  .  ." 

But    already    the    Clansman    was     forging 

29 


Pharais 

ahead,  and  the  second-officer's  menace  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  tumult  of  churned  seas. 

A  minute  later  the  steamer  was  a  dark  mass 
to  the  nor'-west,  with  a  sheet  of  white  writh- 
ing after  her,  and  a  swirl  of  flaming  cinders 
from  her  funnel  riding  down  the  night  like  a 
shoal  of  witch-lights. 

The  wherry  rocked  heavily,  caught  as  she 
was  in  the  surge  from  the  screw,  and  lying 
adrift  in  the  sliding  hollows  and  rough  criss- 
cross of  the  waves. 

Lora  sat  motionless  and  speechless.  The 
old  man  stared  down  into  the  darkness  of  the 
boat :  but  though  his  lips  moved  continuously, 
no  sound  came  from  them. 

For  a  time  it  was  as  though  a  derelict  were 
the  sport  of  the  sea,  which  had  a  dull  moan 
in  it,  that  partly  was  from  the  stifled  voice  of 
the  tide  as  it  forced  its  way  from  the  cauldrons 
of  the  deep,  and  partly  from  the  fugitive 
clamour  of  breaking  waves,  and  mostly  from 
the  now  muffled,  now  loud  and  raucous  sough 
of  the  wind  as  it  swung  low  by  the  surge,  or 
trailed  off  above  the  highest  reach  of  the  flying 
scud. 

At  last,  in  a  whisper,  the  girl  spoke. 

"  Ian,  has  aught  of  evil  come  to  Alastair?" 

"  God  forbid !  " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  to  his  undoing?" 

30 


Phorais 

"  No,  Lora  bhan." 

"  You  have  not  had  the  sight  upon  him 
lately?" 

The  islesman  hesitated  a  moment.  Raising 
his  eyes  at  last,  he  glanced  first  at  his  com- 
panion and  then  out  into  the  dusk  across  the 
waves,  as  though  he  expected  to  see  some  one 
or  something  there  in  answer  to  his  quest. 

"  I  dreamt  a  dream,  Lora,  wife  of  Alastair. 
I  saw  you  and  him  and  another  go  away  into 
a  strange  place.  You  and  the  other  were  as 
shadows ;  but  Alastair  was  a  man,  as  now, 
though  he  walked  through  mist,  and  I  saw 
nothing  of  him  but  from  the  waist  upward." 

Silence  followed  this,  save  for  the  wash  of 
the  sea,  the  moan  of  wind  athwart  wave,  and 
the  soft  rush  of  the  breeze  overhead. 

Ian  rose,  and  made  as  though  he  were  going 
to  put  out  the  oars ;  but  as  he  saw  how  far  the 
boat  had  drifted  from  the  shore,  and  what  a 
jumble  of  water  lay  between  them  and  the  isle, 
he  busied  himself  with  hoisting  the  patched 
brown  sail. 

As  if  no  interval  had  occurred,  Lora  ab- 
ruptly called  him  by  name. 

"  Ian,"  she  added,  "  what  does  the  mist 
mean?  .  .  .  the  mist  that  you  saw  about  the 
feet  and  up  to  the  waist  of  Alastair?" 

There  was  no  reply.     Ian  let  go  the  sail, 

31 


Pharais 

secured  it,  and  then  seated  himself  a  few  feet 
away  from  Lora. 

She  repeated  the  question :  but  the  old  man 
was  obstinately  silent,  nor  did  he  speak  word 
of  any  kind  till  the  wherry  suddenly  slack- 
ened, as  she  slipped  under  the  lee  of  the  little 
promontory  of  the  landing-place. 

"  The  tide  will  be  on  turning  now,"  he 
exclaimed  in  his  awkward  English,  chosen  at 
the  moment  because  he  did  not  dare  to  speak 
in  the  Gaelic,  fearful  as  he  was  of  having  any 
further  word  with  his  companion ;  "  and  see, 
after  all,  the  wind  she  will  soon  pe  gone." 

Lora,  who  had  mechanically  steered  the 
boat  to  its  haven,  still  sat  in  the  stern,  though 
Ian  had  stepped  on  to  the  ledge  and  was  hold- 
ing the  gunwale  close  to  it  so  that  she  might 
step  ashore  with  ease.  She  looked  at  him  as 
though  she  did  not  understand.  The  old  man 
shifted  uneasily.  Then  his  conscience  smote 
him  for  having  used  the  cold,  unfriendly  Eng- 
lish instead  of  the  Gaelic  so  dear  to  them  both  : 
for  was  not  the  girl  in  the  shadow  of  trouble, 
and  did  he  not  foresee  for  her  more  trouble  to 
come?  So,  in  a  gentle,  apologetic  voice,  he 
repeated  in  Gaelic  what  he  had  said  about  the 
tide  and  the  wind : 

'  Thill  an  sruth:  Dh'  fhalbh  a'  ghaoth. 

'  There  will  be  peace  to-night,"  he  added. 

32 


Pharais 

"  It  was  but  a  sunset  breeze,  after  all.  There 
will  be  no  storm.  I  think  now  there  will  be  a 
calm.  It  will  be  bad  for  the  herring-boats. 
It  is  a  long  pull  and  a  hard  pull  when  the 
water  sleeps  against  the  keel.  A  dark  night, 
too,  most  likely." 

Lora  rose,  and  slowly  stepped  on  shore. 
She  took  no  notice  of  Ian's  sudden  garrulity. 
She  did  not  seem  to  see  him  even. 

He  looked  at  her  with  momentary  resent- 
ment: but  almost  simultaneously  a  pitiful  light 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"  He  will  be  here  to-morrow,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  and  if  not,  then  next  day  for  sure." 

Lora  moved  up  the  ledge  in  silence. 

In  the  middle  of  the  cove  she  stopped, 
waved  her  hand,  and,  in  a  dull  voice  bidding 
good-night,  wished  sound  sleep  to  him : 

"  Beannachd  leibh!     Cadal  math  dhiubh!" 

Ian  answered  simply,  "Beannachd  leibli!" 
and  turned  to  fasten  the  rope  to  the  iron  clamp. 

The  dew  was  heavy,  even  on  the  rough  salt 
spear-grass  which  fringed  the  sand  above  the 
cove.  On  the  short  sheep-grass,  on  the  rocky 
soil  beyond,  it  was  dense,  and  shone  white  as  a 
shroud  in  a  dark  room.  A  bat  swung  this  way 
and  that,  whirling  silently.  The  fall  of  the 
wind  still  sighed  in  the  bent  rowan  trees  to 
the  west  of  the  clachan,  where  the  pathway 

33 


Pharais 

diverged  from  the  shore.  Against  the  bluff 
of  Cnoc-an-Iolair  it  swelled  intermittently:  its 
voice  in  the  hollows  and  crevices  of  the  crag 
broken  up  in  moans  and  short  gasps,  fainter 
and  fainter. 

Lora  noted  all  this  wearily  as  she  advanced. 
She  was  conscious,  also,  of  the  nibbling  of  the 
sheep,  quenching  their  thirst  with  the  wet 
grass :  of  the  faint  swish  of  her  feet  going 
through  the  dew :  of  the  dark  track,  like  a 
crack  in  black  ice,  made  wherever  she  walked 
in  the  glisten.  But  though  she  saw  and  un- 
wittingly noted,  her  thoughts  were  all  with 
Alastair  and  with  what  had  kept  him. 

In  her  remote  life  there  was  scarce  room  for 
merely  ordinary  vicissitudes.  It  was  not  a 
thing  to  ponder  as  ominous  that  one  should  go 
out  to  sea  after  herring  or  mackerel  and  not 
return  that  night  or  the  morrow,  or  even  by 
the  next  gloaming,  or  second  dawn ;  or  that  a 
man  should  go  up  among  the  hills  and  not 
come  back  for  long  after  his  expected  hour. 
But  that  one  could  miss  the  great  steamer  was 
a  thing  scarce  to  believe  in.  To  Lora,  who  had 
been  so  little  on  the  mainland,  and  whose  only 
first-hand  knowledge  of  the  feverish  life  of 
towns  was  derived  from  her  one  winter  of 
school-life  at  Rothesay  and  brief  visits  to 
Greenock  and  Oban,  it  was  difficult  to  realise 

34 


Pharais 

how  any  one  could  fail  to  leave  by  the  steamer, 
unless  ill  or  prevented  by  some  serious  mis- 
chance. The  periodical  coming  of  the  Clans- 
man symbolised  for  her,  to  a  certain  extent, 
the  inevitable  march  of  time  and  fate.  To  go 
or  come  by  that  steam-driven,  wind-heedless 
vessel  was  to  be  above  the  uncertainties  and 
vicissitudes  to  which  ordinary  wayfaring  mor- 
tals are  subject.  The'girl  thought  she  knew  so 
much  that  to  her  all  of  what  town-life  meant 
must  be  bare,  because  of  her  reading:  know- 
ing not  that,  with  a  woman  whose  heart  aches, 
a  tear  will  drown  every  word  writ  in  any 
book,  a  sigh  scatter  the  leaves  into  nothing- 
ness. 

Deep  was  the  puzzle  to  her  as  she  slowly 
ascended  the  path  which  led  to  Mary  Mac- 
lean's cottage.  She  stopped  once  or  twice, 
half  unconsciously,  to  smell  the  fragrance  of 
the  bog-myrtle  where  the  gale  grew  in  tufts 
out  of  the  damper  patches,  or  of  the  thyme  as 
it  was  crushed  under  her  feet  and  made  over- 
sweet,  over-poignant  by  the  dew. 

The  peat-reek  reached  her  nostrils  from  the 
cottage,  blent  with  the  breaths  of  the  cows 
that  still  loitered  afoot,  munching  the  cool 
wilding  fodder.  Her  gaze,  too,  fell  upon  the 
fire-lit  interior,  with  a  table  overspread  by  a 
white  cloth,  flushed  by  the  glow  that  wavered 

35 


Pharais 

from  betwixt  the  red-hot  bars ;  and,  later,  upon 
the  figure  of  Mrs.  Maclean,  who  had  come  out 
to  meet  her,  or,  more  likely,  had  been  there 
ever  since  the  ferry-boat  had  gone  off  upon 
its  useless  errand. 

"  Are  you  wet,  Lora  ?  Are  you  cold  ?  "  she 
asked,  as  the  girl  drew  near.  There  was  no 
need  to  say  aught  of  the  bitter  disappointment, 
any  more  than  to  speak  of  the  glooming  of 
the  dusk:  both  were  obvious  facts  beyond  the 
yea  or  nay  of  speech. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  Mary." 

"  Come  in,  dear,  and  have  your  tea.  It  will 
do  you  good.  Lora-mo-ghraidh,  you  should 
not  have  gone  out  in  the  ferry-boat.  It  was 
no  use,  and  the  sea  was  rough,  and  you  might 
have  come  to  harm;  and  what  would  Alastair 
Macleod  be  saying,  to-morrow,  if  he  found  his 
heart's-delight  ill,  and  that  I  had  stood  by  and 
seen  her  do  so  foolish  a  thing?  " 

"  Oh,  Mary,  do  you  really  think  he  will  be 
here  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Surely." 

'  But  I  fear  he  will  wait  now  till  the  next 
sailing  of  the  Clansman." 

'  We  cannot  say.  Come  in,  my  fawn,  out 
of  the  chill." 

''  It  is  going  to  be  a  lovely  night.  The  wind 
falls  fast;  even  now  it  is  almost  still.     The 

36 


Pharais 

purple  peace  will  be  upon  everything  to-night. 
I  am  restless :  I  do  not  wish  to  go  indoors." 

"  No,  no,  Lora  dear  to  me !  Come  in  and 
have  your  tea,  and  then  rest.  You  can  rise  at 
daybreak,  if  you  will,  and  go  round  the  island, 
lest  he  should  be  coming  in  any  of  the  herring- 
smacks." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Ian." 

"  Ian  has  gone  across  to  Ivor  Maquay's ;  he 
will  not  be  here  to-night." 

Lora  looked  suspiciously  at  the  speaker. 
Had  she  not  left  Ian  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
was  he  not  even  now  following  her?  She 
stared  about  her,  but  saw  no  one.  In  the 
gloaming  she  could  just  descry  the  black  mass 
of  the  wherry.  Ian  was  nowhere  visible.  She 
did  not  think  of  scrutinising  the  shadow  of 
the  beached  and  long  disused  coble  which  lay 
a  few  yards  away.  Had  she  done  so,  she  might 
have  perceived  the  old  islesman  standing  rigid. 
He  had  overheard  his  kinswoman,  and  under- 
stood. As  soon  as  the  two  women  had  entered 
the  cottage,  he  moved  swiftly  and  silently 
away,  and,  traversing  the  clachan,  was  soon 
swallowed  up  of  the  darkness. 

After  the  meal  was  ended,  Lora  found  her- 
self overworn  with  excitement.  All  wish  to 
go  out  again  went  from  her.  From  where  she 
lay   resting,   she  watched   Mrs.   Maclean  put 

37 


Pharais 

away  the  things  and  then  seat  herself  by  the 
fire. 

For  a  long  time  neither  woman  spoke.  A 
drowsy  peace  abode  upon  the  threshold. 

The  hot  red  glow  of  the  peats  shone  steadily. 

At  first  there  had  been  a  little  lamp  on  the 
table,  but  after  a  time  Mrs.  Maclean  had  ex- 
tinguished it.  Instead,  she  had  thrown  upon 
the  fire  a  log  of  pinewood.  The  dry  crackle, 
the  spurt  of  the  sap  as  it  simmered  in  the 
heat,  the  yellow  tongues  and  sudden  red  fangs 
and  blue  flames,  gave  the  sound  and  glow 
whereof  a  sweeter  silence  can  be  wrought  into 
what  has  been  but  stillness  before. 

An  hour  went  by.  With  brief  snatches  of 
talk,  all  made  up  of  fears  and  hopes,  another 
hour  passed.  Then  a  long  quietness  again, 
broken  at  the  last  by  a  low  crooning  song  from 
the  elder  woman,  as  she  leaned  to  the  fire  and 
stared  absently  into  its  heart.  The  song  was 
old:  older  than  the  oldest  things,  save  the 
summits  of  the  mountains,  the  granite  isles, 
and  the  brooding  pain  of  the  sea.  Long  ago 
it  had  been  sung  by  wild  Celtic  voices,  before 
ever  spoken  word  was  writ  in  letters— before 
that  again,  mayhap,  and  caught  perhaps  from 
a  wailing  Pictish  mother— so  ancient  was  the 
moving  old-world  strain,  so  antique  the  words 
of  the  lullaby  that  was  dim  with  age  when  it 

38 


Pharais 

soothed  to  sleep  the  child  Ossian,  son  of 
Fingal. 

When  the  crooning  died  away,  Lora  slept. 
With  soft  step  Mrs.  Maclean  moved  across 
the  room,  and  lightly  dropped  a  plaid  over  the 
girl's  figure,  recumbent  in  beautiful  ease  upon 
the  low  bed-couch. 

She  returned  slowly  to  her  place  by  the  fire. 
After  a  while  she  was  about  to  seat  herself, 
when  she  started  violently.  Surely  that  was 
a  face  pressed  for  a  moment  against  the 
window  ? 

With  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes,  she  re- 
proved herself  for  her  nervous  folly.  She  sat 
down,  with  gaze  resolutely  fixed  on  the  glow- 
ing peats :  nor  would  she  have  stirred  again, 
but  for  a  sound  as  of  a  low  moan. 

The  blood  ran  chill  in  her  veins ;  her  mouth 
twitched ;  and  the  intertwisted  fingers  of  her 
hands  were  white  and  lifeless  with  the  fierce 
grip  that  came  of  her  fear. 

But  she  was  not  a  woman  to  be  mastered  by 
terror.  With  a  quivering  sigh  she  rose,  looked 
round  the  room,  forced  herself  to  stare  fixedly 
at  the  window,  and  then  moved  quietly  to  the 
door. 

As  soon  as  she  felt  the  air  upon  her  brows 
she  became  calm,  and  all  dread  left  her. 

"  Is  that  you,  Ian?  "  she  whispered. 

39 


Pharais 

There  was  no  one  visible;  no  sound. 

"  Is  that  you,  Alastair  Macleod  ?  " 

So  low  was  the  utterance  that,  if  any 
one  had  been  there,  he  could  scarce  have 
heard  it. 

To  her  strained  ears  it  was  as  though  she 
heard  a  light  susurrus  of  brushed  dew :  but  it 
might  be  a  wandering  breath  of  air  among 
the  gale,  or  an  adder  moving  through  the 
grass,  or  a  fern-owl  hawking  under  the 
rowan-trees. 

She  waited  a  little;  then,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  re-entered  the  cottage  and  closed  the 
door. 

A  glance  at  Lora  showed  her  that  the  girl 
was  sleeping  unperturbed.  For  some  time 
there  after  she  sat  by  the  fire,  brooding  over 
many  things.  Weary,  at  last,  she  rose,  cast  a 
farewell  glance  at  the  sleeper,  and  then  slipped 
quietly  to  her  bed  in  the  adjoining  room. 

Night  lay  passively  upon  the  sea,  upon  the 
isle,  upon  the  clachan.  Not  a  light  lingered 
in  any  cottage,  save  the  fire-glow  in  that  of 
Mary  Maclean:  a  hollow,  attenuating  beam 
that  stared  through  the  dark  unwaveringly. 

Neither  star  nor  moon  was  visible.  The 
clouds  hung  low,  but  without  imminence  of 
rain  for  the  isles,  drawn  inland  as  the  vapours 
were  by  the  foreheads  of  the  bens. 

40 


Pharais 

An  hour  later  the  door  of  the  cottage 
opened  and  closed  again,  silently.  It  was  Lora 
who  came  forth. 

She  walked  hesitatingly  at  first,  and  then 
more  swiftly,  not  pausing  till  she  reached  the 
little  boulder-pier.  There  she  stood  motion- 
less, listening  intently. 

The  water  lapped  among  the  hollows,  above 
which  the  ebb-left  shellfish  gaped  thirstily. 
There  was  a  lift  among  the  dulse-heaps,  as 
though  a  finger  stirred  them  and  let  loose 
their  keen  salt  smells.  The  bladder-wrack 
moved  with  strange  noises,  sometimes  start- 
lingly  loud,  oftenest  as  if  sea-things  were  be- 
ing stifled  or  strangled. 

From  the  promontory  came  a  cry :  abrupt, 
strident — the  hunger-note  of  a  skua.  The 
thin  pipe  of  the  dotterel  fell  into  the  darkness 
beyond  the  shallows  where  the  sea-mist  lay. 
In  the  Kyle  a  muffled,  stertorous  breath,  near 
and  twice  as  far  away,  told  that  two  whales 
were  in  the  wake  of  the  mackerel. 

From  the  isle,  no  sound.  The  sheep  lay 
on  the  thyme,  or  among  the  bracken,  still  as 
white  boulders.  The  kye  crouched,  with  misty 
nostrils  laid  low  to  the  damp  grass,  rough  with 
tangled  gale.  The  dogs  were  silent.  Even 
the  tufted  canna  hung  straight  and  motionless. 
The  white  moths  had,  one  by  one,  fallen  like 

41 


Pharais 

a   fallen   feather.     The   wind-death  lay  upon 
all :  at  the  last,  too,  upon  the  sea. 


II 


Slowly,  as  though  a  veil  were  withdrawn, 
the  cloudy  dusk  passed  from  the  lift.  The 
moon,  lying  in  violet  shadow,  grew  golden : 
while  the  sheen  of  her  pathway,  trailed  waver- 
ingly  across  the  sea  and  athwart  the  isle,  made 
Innisron  seem  as  a  beautiful  body  motionlessly 
adrift  on  the  deep. 

One  by  one  the  stars  came  forth — solemn 
eyes  watching  for  ever  the  white  procession 
move  onward  orderly  where  there  is  neither 
height,  nor  depth,  nor  beginning,  nor  end. 

In  the  vast  stellar  space  the  moon-glow 
waned  until  it  grew  cold,  white,  ineffably  re- 
mote. Only  upon  our  little  dusky  earth, 
upon  our  restless  span  of  waters,  the  light  de- 
scended in  a  tender  warmth.  Drifting  upon 
the  sea,  it  moved  tremulously  onward,  weav- 
ing the  dark  waters  into  a  weft  of  living 
beauty. 

Strange  murmur  of  ocean,  even  when  deep 
calm  prevails,  and  not  the  most  homeless  wind 
lifts  a  weary  wing  from  wave-gulf  to  wave- 
gulf.    As  a  voice  heard  in  dream ;  as  a  whisper 

42 


Pharais 

* 

in  the  twilight  of  one's  own  soul ;  as  a  breath, 
as  a  sigh  from  one  knows  not  whence,  heard 
suddenly  and  with  recognising  awe ;  so  is  this 
obscure,  troublous  echo  of  a  tumult  that  is 
over,  that  is  not,  but  that  may  be,  that 
awaiteth. 

To  Lora  it  was  almost  inaudible.  Rather, 
her  ears  held  no  other  sound  than  the  babbling 
repetitive  chime  and  whisper  of  the  lip  of  the 
sea  moving  to  and  fro  the  pebbles  on  the  nar- 
row strand  just  beyond  her. 

Her  eyes  saw  the  lift  of  the  dark,  the  lovely 
advance  of  the  lunar  twilight,  the  miracle  of 
the  yellow  bloom — golden  here  and  here  white 
as  frost-fire — upon  sea  and  land :  they  saw, 
and  yet  saw  not.  Her  ears  heard  the  muffled 
voice  of  ocean  and  the  sweet  recurrent  whis- 
pering of  the  foam-white  runnels  beside  her : 
they  heard,  and  yet  heard  not. 

Surely,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  loneliness,  she 
would  have  knowledge  of  Alastair.  Surely, 
she  thought,  he  would  come  to  her  in  the 
spirit.  In  deep  love  there  is  a  living  invisible 
line  from  soul  to  soul  whereby  portent  of  joy 
or  disaster,  or  passion  of  loneliness,  or  passion 
of  fear,  or  passion  of  longing  may  be  conveyed 
with  terrifying  surety. 

How  beyond  words  dreadful  was  this  re- 
moteness   which   environed   her,   as   the   vast 

43 


Pharais 

dome  of  night  to  a  single  white  flower  growing 
solitary  in  a  waste  place. 

Inland  upon  the  isle,  seaward,  skyward, 
Lora  looked  with  aching  eyes.  The  moonlight 
wounded  her  with  its  peace.  The  shimmering 
sea  beat  to  a  rhythm  atune  to  a  larger  throb 
than  that  of  a  petty  human  life.  In  the  starry 
infinitude  her  finitude  was  lost,  absorbed,  as  a 
grain  of  sand  wind-blown  a  few  yards  across 
an  illimitable  desert. 

That  passionate  protest  of  the  soul  against 
the  absolute  unheed  of  nature  was  hers:  that 
already  defeated  revolt  of  the  whirling  leaf 
against  the  soaring,  far-come,  far-going  wind 
that  knows  nothing  of  what  happens  beneath 
it  in  the  drift  of  its  inevitable  passage. 

With  a  sob,  she  turned,  vaguely  yearning 
for  the  human  peace  that  abode  in  the  cottage. 
As  she  moved,  she  saw  a  shadow,  solidly 
clear-cut  in  the  moonlight,  sweep  from  a  rock 
close  by,  as  though  it  were  a  swinging  scythe. 

Instinctively  she  glanced  upward,  to  see  if 
the  cloud-counterpart  were  overhead.  The 
sky  was  now  cloudless :  neither  passing  vapour 
nor  travelling  wild-swan  had  made  that 
shadow  leap  from  the  smooth  boulder  into  the 
darkness. 

She  trembled :  for  she  feared  she  had  seen 
the  Watcher  of  the  Dead.     At  the  wane  of 

44 


Pharais 

the  last  moon,  an  old  islesman  had  passed  into 
the  white  sleep.  Lora  knew  that  his  spirit 
would  have  to  become  the  Watcher  of  Graves 
till  such  time  as  another  soul  should  lapse  into 
the  silence.  Was  this  he,  she  wondered  with 
instinctive  dread — was  this  Fergus,  weary  of 
his  vigil,  errant  about  the  isle  which  had  been 
the  world  to  him,  a  drifting  shadow  from 
graveyard  to  byre  and  sheiling,  from  fold  to 
dark  fold,  from  the  clachan-end  to  the  shore- 
pastures,  from  coble  to  havened  coble,  from 
the  place  of  the  boats  to  the  ferry-rock  ?  Did 
he  know  that  he  would  soon  have  one  to  take 
over  from  him  his  dreadful  peace?  Or  was  he 
in  no  satiate  peace,  but  anhungered  as  a  beast 
of  prey  for  the  death  of  another?  And  then 
.  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  who  was  this  other?  Who 
next  upon  the  isle  would  be  the  Watcher  of 
the  Dead? 

With  a  low,  shuddering  breath,  she  sighed, 
"Fergus!" 

The  fall  of  her  voice  through  the  silence 
was  an  echo  of  terror.  She  clasped  her  hands 
across  her  breast.  Her  body  swayed  forward 
as  a  bulrush  before  the  wind. 

"Ah,  Dial  Dial"  broke  from  her  lips; 
for,  beyond  all  doubt,  she  saw  once  again  the 
moving  of  a  darkness  within  the  dark. 

Yet    what    she    saw    was    no    shadow-man 

45 


Pharais 

weary  of  last  vigil,  but  something  that  for  a 
moment  filled  her  with  the  blindness  of  dread. 
Was  it  possible?  Was  she  waylaid  by  one  of 
those  terrible  dwellers  in  twilight-water  of 
which  she  had  heard  so  often  from  the  tellers 
of  old  tales? 

'  Toradh  nu  feudalach  gun  am  faicinn," 
she  muttered  with  cold  lips :  "  the  offspring  of 
the  cattle  that  have  not  been  seen !  " 

"  Ah,  no,  no !  "  she  cried.  The  next  mo- 
ment, and  with  a  sob  of  relief,  she  saw  a 
moonbeam  steal  upon  the  hollow  and  reveal 
its  quietude  of  dusk.  She  would  have  moved 
at  once  from  boulder  to  boulder,  eager  for 
that  lost  sanctuary  whence  she  had  come — 
when  the  very  pulse  of  her  heart  sprang  to 
the  burst  of  a  human  sob  close  by. 

She  stood  still,  as  though  frozen.  A  mo- 
ment before,  the  breath  from  her  lips  was 
visible :  now  not  the  faintest  vapour  melted 
into  the  night-air. 

Was  she  dreaming,  she  wondered,  when  the 
stifling  grip  at  her  heart  had  mercifully  re- 
laxed? 

No:  there  was  no  mistake.  Blent  with  the 
gurgle  and  cluck  and  whisper  of  the  water 
among  the  lifted  bladder- wrack  and  in  and  out 
of  the  pools  and  crannies  in  the  rocks,  there 
was  the  piteous  sound  of  a  human  sob. 

46 


Pharais 

All  at  once,  everything  became  clear  to  Lora. 
She  knew  that  Alastair  was  near :  she  did  not 
even  dread  that  he  was  present  as  a  disem- 
bodied spirit.  He  had  reached  the  isle  after 
all,  but  in  some  strange  sorrow  had  not  sought 
her  straightway. 

"Alastair!"  she  cried  yearningly. 

No  one  answered ;  no  one  stirred ;  nothing 
moved.     But  the  muffled  sobbing  was  hushed. 

"  Alastair !    Alastair !  " 

Slowly  from  a  sand-drift  beside  the  ferry- 
rock  a  tall  figure  arose.  For  a  few  moments 
it  stood  motionless,  black  against  the  yellow 
shine  of  the  moon.  The  face  was  pale ;  that 
of  a  man,  young,  with  the  thin  lips,  the  shad- 
owy eyes  that  in  sunlight  would  shine  sea- 
blue,  the  high  oval  features,  the  tangled,  curly, 
yellow-tawny  hair  of  the  islesmen  of  the 
ancient  Suderoer,  in  whose  veins  the  Celtic 
and  the  Scandinavian  strains  commingle. 

Alastair  was  as  visible  as  though  he  were  in 
the  noon-light. 

Lora  looked  at  him,  speechless.  She  saw 
that  in  his  strained  eyes,  in  his  wrought  fea- 
tures, which  told  her  he  had  drunken  of  sor- 
row. His  dishevelled  hair,  his  whole  mien 
and  appearance  showed  that  he  was  in  some 
dire  extremity. 

"  Alastair! " 

47 


Pharais 

He  heard  the  low,  passionate  appeal,  but  at 
first  he  did  not  stir.  Then,  and  yet  as  though 
constrainedly  and  in  weariness,  he  raised  and 
stretched  forth  his  arms. 

Swift  as  a  gliding  shadow,  Lora  was  beside 
him,  and  clasped  to  his  heart. 

For  a  time,  neither  spoke.  His  heart  beat 
loud  and  heavily :  against  his  breast  her  head 
lay,  with  her  breath  coming  and  going  like  a 
wounded  bird  panting  in  the  green-gloom  of 
the  thicket. 

"  O  Alastair,  Alastair,  what  is  it?  "  she  mur- 
mured at  last,  raising  her  head  and  looking 
into  his  pale,  distraught  face. 

'  What  made  you  come  out  in  the  dark, 
Lora-mitirnean?  " 

"  I  could  not  rest.  I  was  too  unhappy.  I 
thought — I  thought — no,  I  do  not  think  I 
dared  to  believe  that  you  might  come  to-night 
after  all ;  but  something  made  me  long  to  go 
down  to  the  sea.  Did  you  see  me  only  now, 
dear  heart  ?  " 

"No,   Lora." 

For  a  moment  she  was  still,  while  she  gazed 
fixedly  at  Alastair. 

"  Ah,"  she  whispered  at  last,  "  then  you 
have  been  here  all  this  night,  and  I  not  know- 
ing it!  Ah,  Aluinn,  it  was  your  heart  crying 
to  mine  that  made  me  rise  and  leave  the  cot- 

48 


Pharais 

tage  and  come  out  into  the  dark.  But  why 
did  you  not  come  to  me  ?  When  did  you  come 
to  Innisron  ?    How  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  Dear,  I  could  not  wait  for  the  Clansman. 
I  left  Greenock  three  hours  earlier  by  the 
Foam,  James  Gilchrist's  tug;  for  he  under- 
took to  put  me  ashore  at  the  haven  below 
Craig-Sionnach.  Thence  I  walked  to  Dun- 
more.  But  I  was  not  well,  Lora;  and  I  was 
so  long  on  the  way  that  I  missed  the  Clans- 
man as  well  as  the  Dunmore  herring-steamer. 
Before  nightfall,  however,  I  persuaded  Archi- 
bald Macleod,  of  -Tighnacraigh,  to  bring  me 
here  on  his  smack.  I  landed  at  the  Rock  of 
the  Seafold.  It  was  already  dusk,  and  my 
heart  was  against  yours  in  longing,  my  beau- 
tiful gloom :  yet  over  me  came  such  a  sorrow 
that  I  could  not  bear  the  homing,  and  so 
moved  restlessly  from  shadow  to  shadow.  I 
felt  as  though  it  would  be  better  for  me  to 
deal  with  my  sorrow  alone  and  in  the  night, 
and  that  it  was  more  bearable  since  I  was  so 
near  you,  and  that  any  moment  I  could  go  to 
you." 

"Why,  why  did  you  not  come,  Alastair? 
Oh,  I  longed,  longed  for  you  so!  " 

"  Once  I  came  close  to  the  cottage,  almost 
happy  since  I  knew  that  you  were  so  near  to 
me.     The   red   glow  that  warmed   the   dark 

49 


Pharais 

without  comforted  me.  I  thought  I  would 
look  in  upon  you  for  a  moment;  and  if  you 
and  Mary  were  awake  and  talking,  that  I 
should  let  you  know  I  had  come.  But  I  saw 
that  you  lay  in  sleep ;  and  I  had  scarce  time  to 
withdraw  ere,  as  I  feared,  Mary  saw  me — 
though  see  me,  indeed,  perhaps  she  did,  for 
in  a  brief  while  she  opened  the  door  and  came 
out,  and  would  have  discovered  me  but  that  I 
moved  swiftly  to  the  shadow  of  the  birk- 
shaws.  Then,  after  a  little,  I  wandered  down 
by  the  shore.  There  was  a  voice  in  the  sea — 
calling,  calling.  It  was  so  cool  and  sweet: 
soft  was  the  balm  of  the  air  of  it,  as  the  look 
of  your  eyes,  Lora,  as  the  touch  of  your  hand. 
I  was  almost  healed  of  my  suffering,  when 
suddenly  the  pain  in  my  head  sprang  upon 
me,  and  I  crouched  in  the  hollow  yonder,  chill 
with  the  sweat  of  my  agony." 

"  O  Alastair,  Alastair,  then  you  are  no  bet- 
ter :  that  great  doctor  you  went  so  far  to  see 
has  done  you  no  good  ?  " 

"  And  in  the  midst  of  my  pain,  Lora  my 
Rest,  I  saw  you  standing  by  the  sea  upon  the 
ferry-ledge.  At  first  I  took  you  for  a  vision, 
and  my  heart  sank.  But  when  the  moonlight 
reached  the  isle  and  enfolded  you,  I  saw  that 
it  was  you  indeed.  And  once  more  my  pain 
and  my  sorrow  overcame  me !  " 

50 


Pharais 

"  Alastair,  I  am  terrified !  It  was  not  thus 
for  you  before  you  went  away.  Great  as  was 
your  pain,  you  had  not  this  gloom  of  sorrow. 
Oh,  what  is  it,  what  is  it,  dear  heart?  Tell 
me,  tell  me  !  " 

Slowly  Alastair  held  Lora  back  from  him, 
and  looked  long  and  searchingly  into  her  eyes. 

She  shrank,  in  an  apprehension  that,  like  a 
bird,  flew  bewildered  from  the  blinding  light 
that  flashed  out  of  the  darkness — a  vain  be- 
wilderment of  foredoom. 

Then,  with  a  great  effort,  she  bade  him  tell 
her  what  he  had  to  say. 

Too  well  he  knew  there  was  no  time  to  lose : 
that  any  day,  any  moment,  his  dark  hour  would 
come  upon  him,  and  that  then  it  would  be  too 
late.    Yet  he  would  fain  have  waited. 

;<  Lora,  have  you  heard  aught  said  by  any 
one  concerning  my  illness  ?  " 

'  Dear,  Father  Manus  told  me,  on  the  day 
you  went  away,  that  you  feared  the  trouble 
which  came  upon  your  father,  and  upon  your 
father's  father ;  and  oh,  Alastair  my  beloved, 
he  told  me  what  that  trouble  was." 

"  Then  you  know  :  you  can  understand  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  That  which  now  appals  me  .  .  .  now  kills 


me. 


Alastair !  " 

51 


Pharais 

"Yes,  Lora?" 

"  Oh,  Alastair,  Alastair,  you  do  not  mean 
that  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  you  too  .  .  .  you  are  .  .  . 
are  .  .  .  that  you  have  the  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  mind- 
dark?" 

"  Dear  heart  of  mine,  this  sorrow  has  come 
to  us.     I " 

With  a  sharp  cry  Lora  held  him  to  her, 
despairingly,  wildly,  as  though  even  at  that 
moment  he  were  to  be  snatched  from  her. 
Then,  in  a  passion  of  sobbing,  she  shook  in 
his  arms  as  a  withered  aspen-leaf  ere  it  fall 
to  the  wind. 

The  tears  ran  down  his  face ;  his  mouth 
twitched;  his  long,  thin  fingers  moved  rest- 
lessly in  her  hair  and  upon  her  quivering 
shoulder. 

No  other  sound  than  her  convulsive  sobs, 
than  his  spasmodic  breathing,  met  in  the 
quietude  of  whisper-music  exhaled  as  an  odour 
by  the  sea  and  by  the  low  wind  among  the 
corries  and  upon  the  grasses  of  the  isle. 

A  white  moth  came  fluttering  slowly  toward 
them,  hovering  vaguely  awhile  overhead,  and 
then  drifting  alow  and  almost  to  their  feet.  In 
the  shadow  it  loomed  grey  and  formless — 
an  obscure  thing  that  might  have  come  out  of 
the  heart  of  the  unguarded  brain.  Upward 
again  it  fluttered,  idly  this  way  and  that :  then 

52 


Pharais 

suddenly  alit  upon  the  hair  of  Alastair,  poising 
itself  on  spread  wings,  and  now  all  agleam  as 
with  pale  phosphorescent  fire,  where  the  moon- 
light filled  it  with  sheen  as  of  white  water 
falling  against  the  sun. 

The  gleam  caught  Lora's  eyes  as,  with  a 
weary  sigh,  she  lifted  her  head. 

A  strange  smile  came  into  her  face.  Slowly 
she  disengaged  her  right  arm,  and  half  raised 
it.  Alastair  was  about  to  speak,  but  her  eyes 
brought  silence  upon  him. 

"  Hush !  "  she  whispered  at  last. 

He  saw  that  her  eyes  looked  beyond  his, 
beyond  him,  as  it  seemed.  What  did  she  see? 
The  trouble  in  his  brain  moved  anew  at  this 
touch  of  mystery. 

"What  is  it,  Lora?" 

"  Hush,  hush !  .  .  .  I  see  a  sign  from  heaven 
upon  your  forehead  .  .  .  the  sign  of  the  white 
peace  that  Seumas  says  is  upon  them  who 
are  of  the  company  of  the  Beloved." 

"Lora,  what  are  you  saying?  What  is  it? 
What  do  you  see  ?  " 

His  voice  suddenly  was  harsh,  fretful.  Lora 
shrank  for  a  moment ;  then,  as  the  white  moth 
rose  and  fluttered  away  into  the  dark,  faintly 
agleam  with  moonfire  till  it  reached  the 
shadow,  she  pitifully  raised  her  hand  to  his 
brow. 

53 


Pharais 

"  Come,  dear,  let  us  go  in.  All  will  be  well 
with  us,  whatever  happens." 

"  Never  .  .  .  never  .  .  .  never !  " 

"  O  Alastair,  if  it  be  God's  will?" 

"Ay,  and  if  it  be  God's  will?" 

"I  cannot  lose  you;  you  will  always  be 
mine ;  no  sorrow  can  part  us ;  nothing  can 
separate  us ;  nothing  but  the  Passing,  and 
that  .  .  ." 

"  Lora !  " 

For  answer  she  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"Lora,  it  is  of  that,  of  the  Passing:  .  .  . 
are  you  .  .  .  are  you  brave  enough  not  only  to 
endure  .  .  .  but  to  ...  if  we  thought  it  well 
...  if  I  asked  you  ...  ?  " 

A  deep  silence  fell  upon  both.  Hardly  did 
either  breathe.  By  some  strange  vagary  of  the 
strained  mind,  Lora  thought  the  throb  of  her 
heart  against  her  side  was  like  the  pulse  of  the 
engines  of  the  Clansman  to  which  she  had 
listened  with  such  intent  expectation  that  very 
evening. 

From  the  darkness  to  the  north  came  the 
low  monotone  of  the  sea,  as  a  muffled  voice 
prophesying  through  the  gates  of  Sleep  and 
Death.  Far  to  the  east  the  tide-race  tore 
through  the  Sound  with  a  confused  muttering 
of  haste  and  tumult.  Upon  the  isle  the  wind 
moved  as  a  thing  in  pain,  or  idly  weary :  lifting 

54 


P karats 

now  from  cranny  to  corrie,  and  through  glen 
and  hollow,  and  among  the  birk-shaws  and  the 
rowans,  with  long  sighs  and  whispers  where 
by  Uisghe-dhu  the  valley  of  moonflowers 
sloped  to  the  sea  on  the  west,  or  among  the 
reeds,  and  the  gale,  and  the  salt  grasses  around 
the  claehan  that  lay  duskily  still  on  the  little 
brae  above  the  haven. 

"  Lora  .  .  .  would  you  .  .  .  would  .  .  .  ?" 

Only  her  caught  breath  at  intervals  gave 
answer.  The  short  lisp  and  gurgle  of  the 
water  in  the  sea-weed  close  by  came  nearer. 
The  tide  was  on  the  flood,  and  the  sand  about 
their  feet  was  already  damp. 

The  immense  semicircle  of  the  sky  domed 
sea  and  land  with  infinity.  In  the  vast  space 
the  stars  and  planets  fulfilled  their  ordered 
plan.  Star  by  star,  planet  by  planet,  sun  by 
sun,  universe  by  universe  moved  jocund  in  the 
march  of  eternal  death. 

Beyond  the  two  lonely  figures,  seaward,  the 
moon  swung,  green-gold  at  the  heart  with 
circumambient  flame  of  pearl. 

Beautiful  the  suspended  lamp  of  her  glory 
— a  censer  swung  before  the  Earth-Altar  of 
the  Unknown. 

In  their  human  pain  the  two  drew  closer 
still.  The  remote  alien  silences  of  the  larger 
life  around  vaguely  appalled  them.    Yet  Lora 

55 


Pharais 

knew  what  was  in  his  thought ;  what  he  fore- 
shadowed ;  what  he  wished. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  will,  Alastair,  heart  of 
me,  life  of  me,"  she  whispered.  Then,  with 
clasping  arms,  and  dear  entreaty,  she  urged 
him  homeward. 

"  Come,  come  home,  Alastair,  Aluinn. 
Enough  of  sorrow  to-night.  Speak  to  me  to- 
morrow of  all  that  is  in  your  mind ;  but  to- 
night .  .  .  to-night,  no  more!  My  heart  will 
break.  Come,  dearest.  Come,  mo  miiirnean! 
Hark!  the  wind  is  crying  in  the  corrie:  it 
is  rising  again  on  the  other  side  of  the  isle: 
and  we  are  already  chill — oh,  cold,  so 
cold !  " 

Hand  in  hand,  they  moved  slowly  upward 
along  the  little  pathway  of  mingled  grass  and 
shingle  which  led  to  the  clachan  from  the 
ferry:  he  with  bowed  head,  she  with  upward 
face. 

A  dog  barked  from  a  byre,  another  answered 
from  a  sheiling  beyond.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
rushing  sound,  and  Ghaoth,  Alastair's  dog, 
came  leaping  upon  his  master,  whining  and 
barking  with  joy.  He  stooped  and  fondled 
it;  but  in  vain  tried  to  quell  its  ecstasy  in 
seeing  him  again. 

Whether  aroused  by  the  barking  of  Ghaoth, 
or  having  awoke  and  found  Lora  absent  from 

56 


Pharais 

the  cottage,  Mrs.  Maclean  had  risen,  lit  a 
candle,  and  now  stood  upon  the  threshold, 
looking  intently  at  the  twain  as  they  ap- 
proached. 

Among  the  islefolk  many  words  are  not 
used.  The  over-arching  majesty  of  the  sky, 
the  surrounding  majesty  of  the  sea,  the  loneli- 
ness of  these  little  wind-swept  spots  of  earth 
isled  in  remote  waters,  leave  a  hush  upon  the 
brain,  and  foster  eloquent  silences  rather  than 
idle  words. 

Mrs.  Maclean  knew  intuitively  that  some- 
thing of  disaster  was  in  this  nocturnal  return 
of  Alastair:  that  he  and  Lora  had  met  by 
chance,  or  through  a  summons  unknown  to 
her :  and  that  now  they  came — to  her,  in  their 
youth,  so  tragically  piteous  under  the  shadow 
of  calamity — craving  only  for  that  impossible 
boon  of  the  young  in  sorrow :  peace. 

When  they  drew  near  to  her,  she  turned 
and  placed  the  candle  on  the  table.  Then, 
facing  them,  she  came  forward,  led  them  in  by 
the  hand,  and  closed  the' door.  She  saw  that 
Alastair  was  hatless,  and  his  clothes  damp  and 
travel-stained ;  so  with  quiet,  home-sweet 
words,  she  persuaded  him  to  change  his  things 
while  she  laid  some  food  for  him  to  break  his 
long  fast  with. 

But  though  wearily  he  did  the  one,  he  would 

57 


Pharais 

have  nothing  of  the  other  save  a  draught  of 
warm  milk. 

A  heavy  drowsiness  was  now  upon  him.  He 
could  scarce  uplift  the  lids  from  his  eyes. 
His  voice,  when  he  spoke  at  all,  was  so  low 
that  it  was  barely  audible. 

After  a  silence,  during  which  he  had  looked 
long  at  the  fire,  and  closed  his  eyes  at  the  last, 
with  Lora's  gaze  hungrily  set  upon  him,  and 
the  dark,  sweet  gloom  of  Mrs.  Maclean's,  wet 
with  the  dew  of  unshed  tears,  upon  both  of 
the  twain  whom  she  loved  so  passing  well,  he 
murmured  huskily  and  confusedly  : 

'  By  green  pastures  ...  I  will  lay  me  down 
to  sleep.  ...    It  calleth,  calleth  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Maclean  arose.  Taking 
Lora's  hand,  she  led  her  to  the  fireside  and 
motioned  her  to  kneel  beside  Alastair.  Then, 
blowing  out  the  candle-flame,  she  too  knelt. 
Only  the  fireglow  now  lit  the  room,  filled  with 
brooding  shadows  in  the  corners  and  with 
warm  dusk  where  the  two  women  kneeled  and 
the  man  slept. 

With  arms  lifted  as  if  in  invocation,  the 
elder  woman — her  face  wan  under  her  grey 
hair,  though  touched  with  an  unreal  glow 
from  the  flaming  peats — in  a  low,  croon- 
ing voice,  repeated  the  ancient  rest-words, 
the  ancient  prayer  of  her  people,  said  at  the 

58 


Pharais 

covering  up  of  the  fire  against  the  hours  of 
sleep : 

"  Smalaidh  mis'n  nochd  an  teine; 
Mar  a  smalas  Mac  Moire. 
Gu'm  bu  slan  an  tigh's  an  teine, 
Gu'm  bu  slan  a'  chiudeachd  uile. 
Co  bhios  air  an  lar? 
Peadair  agus  Pbl, 
Co  bhios  air  an  phaire  nochd  ? 
Moire  mhin-gheal's  a  Mac. 
Bial  De  a  labhras, 
Aingeal  geal  a  dh'  innseas — 
Ga'r  comlinadh's  ga'r  gleidheadh 
Gus  an  tig  an  solus  geal  a  maireach." 

I  will  cover  up  the  fire  aright, 

Even  as  directed  by  the  Virgin's  Son. 

Safe  be  the  house,  and  safe  the  fire, 

And  safe  from  harm  be  all  the  indwellers. 

Who  is  that  that  I  see  on  the  floor? 

Even  Peter  himself  and  Paul. 

Upon  whom  shall  this  night's  vigil  rest? 

Upon  the  blameless  Virgin  and  her  Son: 

God's  mouth  has  spoken  it. 

A  white-robed  angel  shall  be  with  us  in  the  dark, 

Till  the  coming  of  the  sun  at  morn. 

When  she  ceased,  there  was  no  sound  save 
the  low  sobbing  of  Lora  and  the  quiet  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeper  in  the  high-backed  chair. 

Having  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon 
her  breast  and  over  the  fire,  she  covered  up  the 
flame    with   ash   and   charred   peat.     Quietly, 

59 


Pharais 

then,  she  placed  her  strong  arm  around 
Alastair,  and  half  guided,  half  lifted  him  to 
the  bed  in  the  adjoining  room  where  he  and 
Lora  were  wont  to  sleep.  The  girl-wife  fol- 
lowed, and,  with  deft  hands,  unclad  Alastair 
and  laid  him  gently  in  the  bed.  Swiftly  dis- 
robing herself,  she  lay  down  by  his  side,  her 
dark  hair  mingling  on  the  pillow  with  his 
tangle  of  dull  gold. 

The  gleam  still  emitted  between  the  bars 
from  beneath  the  covered  peats  passed  into  the 
room  through  the  open  doorway  and  fell  upon 
the  bed. 

Alastair  stirred ;  opened  his  eyes ;  looked 
with  wild,  startled  gaze  at  Lora,  then  at  Mrs. 
Maclean,  who  had  again  knelt,  and  with  raised 
arms  had  begun  her  "  Blessing  of  Peace." 

With  a  sigh  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  ter- 
ror passed  from  his  face.  Once  or  twice  he 
muttered  parts  of  the  lines  of  that  ancient 
sleep-prayer,  familiar  to  him  since  his  boyhood, 
and  before  it  was  ended  deep  slumber  had 
come  upon  him : 

"  Laidhidh  misc  'nochd 
Le  Moire  's  le  'Mac, 
Le  mathair  mo  Righ, 
'Ni  mo  dhion  'o  dhroch-bheairt, 
Cha  laidh  mise  lets  an  olc, 
'S  cha  laidh  an  t'  olc  learn; 
Ach  laidhidh  mi  le  Dia, 
60 


Pharais 

'S  laidhidh  Dia  Ma'  rium. 

Lamh  dheas  Dhe  fo'm  cheann, 

Crois  nan  naoi  aingeal  learn. 

'O  mhullach  mo  chinn 

Gu  craican  mo  bhonn. 

Guidheam  Peadair,  guidhcam  Pdl, 

Guidheam  Moir-Oigh'  'sa  Mac. 

Guidheam  an  da  ostal  deug, 

Gun  mise  'dhol  eug  le'n  cead. 

'Dhia  'sa  Mhoire  na  gloire. 

'S  a  Mhic  na  oighe  cubhraidh 

Cumabh  mise  o  na  piantan  dorcha, 

'S  Micheal  geal'  an  cb  'ail  m'anama." 

This  night  I  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep 

With  Mary  Virgin  and  her  Son, 

Even  with  the  mother  of  my  King, 

Who  protects  me  from  all  evil; 

Nor  shall  evil  lie  down  to  sleep  with  me, 

But  I  shall  sleep  with  God: 

And  with  me  shall  God  lie  down. 

His  right  arm  shall  be  under  my  head: 

The  cross  of  the  Nine  Angels  be  about  me, 

From  the  top  of  my  head 

To  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

I  supplicate  Peter,  I  supplicate  Paul, 

I  supplicate  Mary  the  Virgin  and  her  Son, 

I  supplicate  the  twelve  Apostles, 

That  evil  befall  us  not  this  night. 

Mary,  in  thy  goodness  and  glory, 

And  Thou,  Son  of  the  sweet-savoured  Virgin, 

Protect  us  this  night  from  all  the   pains  of  dark- 
ness. 

And   thou,   Michael,  guardian  of  souls,  abide  with 
us,  watching. 

6l 


Pharais 

When  she  looked  down,  at  the  end  of  her 
prayer,  Mary  saw  that  Lora's  eyes  also  were 
closed ;  though  by  the  muttering  of  the  lips 
she  knew  her  dear  one  was  not  asleep. 

Softly  she  closed  the  door  behind  her ;  then, 
passing  by  the  fire,  went  into  the  third  room 
of  the  cottage. 

Soon  she  too  was  in  bed,  softly  repeating, 
as  the  weariness  of  sleep  came  over  her : 

Cha  laidh  mise  lets  an  olc, 
'S  cha  laidh  an  t'  olc  learn. 

Without,  came  the  rising  sound  of  the  tide 
among  the  pebbles  on  the  shore,  the  incessant 
chime  of  wave  lapsing  over  wave  on  flat  rocks. 
The  sough  of  the  wind  fell  from  the  corries  of 
Craig-an-Iolair,  and  died  in  whispers  among 
the  fern  and  dew-cold  grasses. 

So  went  the  hours  from  silence  into  silence. 
And  in  time  came  the  dawn,  and  an  ashen- 
grey  upon  the  sea,  and  a  grey  gloom  upon  each 
leaf  and  every  dusky  frond  and  blade.  But 
when  the  black  of  the  mainland  became  gold, 
and  a  trouble  of  light  moved,  swiftly-throb- 
bing, across  the  eastern  water,  Michael  the 
Watcher  withdrew. 

At  the  window  of  the  room  where  Alastair 
and  Lora  slept,  the  beautiful  sunflood  of  the 
new  day  poured  in  rejoicingly. 

62 


Pharais 

One  long  streamer  of  light  fell  upon  his 
yellow  hair  and  kissed  the  eyelids  of  a  veiled, 
subsiding  mind.  Downward  it  moved,  and 
filled  with  its  gleam  the  dark-brown  hair  which 
lay  across  the  white  breast  of  Lora.  Then, 
surely,  it  passed  beneath  the  flower  of  her 
bosom  and  into  her  heart,  and  warmed  it  with 
joy;  for  with  a  smile  she  awoke,  murmuring, 

"  Pharais,  Pharais." 


Ill 


Before  the  want  of  that  day,  the  rumour 
went  among  the  scant  population  of  In- 
nisron  that  Alastair,  son  of  Diarmid  of  Mac- 
leod,  was  mad:  that,  in  the  phrasing  of  the 
islesman,  he  had  the  mind-dark. 

Men  and  women  whispered  the  thing  with 
awe.  In  the  West,  something  almost  of  a 
hieratic  significance  is  involved  in  the  poetic 
phrase  that  God  has  filled  with  dusk  the  house 
of  the  brain.  Not  thus  is  spoken  of  the 
violence  of  insanity — the  mere  insurgence  of 
delirium  from  the  fever  of  hate,  or  from 
jealousy,  or  love,  or  evil  of  the  blood,  or  the 
curse  of  drink.  But  that  veil  of  darkness 
which  comes  down  upon  the  mind  of  man  or 
woman  in  the  fullness  of  life,  and  puts  an  im- 

63 


Pharais 

permeable  mist  or  a  twilight  of  awful  gloom 
about  the  soul,  is  looked  upon  not  only  with 
an  exceeding  tenderness,  but  with  awe,  and  as 
of  a  bowing  of  the  head  before  a  divine 
mystery. 

Yet  the  rumour  was  not  true,  for  Alastair 
Macleod,  though  he  stood  within  the  shadow, 
had  not  yet  sunk  into  the  darkness. 

As  it  had  chanced,  Mrs.  Maclean  was  not 
the  only  person  who  had  seen  him  and  Lora  on 
their  return. 

Late  in  the  night  Ian  Maclean  had  come 
back  from  the  western  side  of  the  isle,  and 
was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  byre  when, 
hand  in  hand,  Lora  and  Alastair  approached. 

The  old  man  had  been  unhappy,  and,  after 
leaving  his  kinsman  at  Ardfeulan,  had  wan- 
dered up  among  the  corries.  In  the  wail  of 
the  wind  along  the  heights,  in  the  sough  of  it 
in  the  little  glens  and  shelving  uplands,  he 
heard  voices  to  which  he  would  fain  not  have 
listened,  for  they  spoke  of  a  terror  that  was 
in  the  air. 

The  moment  he  saw  Alastair's  eyes,  dark 
within  the  moonlit  pallor  of  the  face,  he  knew 
that  his  premonitions  were  no  mere  imagin- 
ings. On  his  forehead  he  saw  the  shadow  of 
doom. 

With  a  sigh  he  turned,  and,  having  entered 

64 


Pharais 

the  byre  and  gone  to  the  part  of  it  shut  off 
for  his  use,  lay  down  upon  his  bed  of  fragrant 
fern.  But,  weary  as  he  was,  he  could  not 
sleep. 

Again  the  vision  came  to  him :  and  once 
more  he  saw  Alastair  move  blindly  in  an  un- 
familiar place,  with  the  mist  no  longer  up  to 
his  waist  only,  but  risen  now  to  his  throat,  and 
with  thin  tongues  reaching  upward  still. 

The  long  night  went  drearily  past.  When 
the  day  was  come,  Ian  rose  and  let  out  the 
kye.  The  sweet  freshness  of  the  air  was  as 
balm  to  his  weariness.  The  wind  blew  cool 
upon  his  brows,  and  a  breath  of  the  sea 
mingled  with  the  myriad  suspiration  of  the 
earth  and  gave  him  the  intoxication  of  the 
dawn.  His  eyes  grew  brighter,  his  step  firmer, 
his  mien  no  longer  that  of  profound  dejection ; 
and  when  Ghaoth  came  leaping  toward  him, 
and  barked  about  the  half-amused,  half-angry 
cows — who  stopped  to  plash  their  hoofs  in 
the  thick  white  dew,  against  which  the  warm 
breaths  fell  revolvingly  like  grey  whorls  of 
steam,  and  to  swing  their  great  horns  against 
their  flanks,  wild  and  shaggy  as  the  brown 
hill-sides  in  autumn — then  all  the  gloom  of  the 
night  went  from  him. 

"  Mayhap  it  was  but  a  dream,"  he  muttered : 
"  and  who  can  tell  the  folly  of  the  mind?  " 

65 


Pharais 

Then,  with  Ghaoth's  help,  he  got  the  steers 
from  the  neighbouring  shed  and  "  Righ-geal," 
the  great  tawny-shaggy  bull,  whose  either  horn 
could  have  pierced  right  through  and  beyond 
the  biggest  drover  who  ever  crossed  the  Kyles 
at  Colintraive,  and  urged  all  the  kine  upward 
to  the  higher  pastures,  where  the  thyme  was 
so  sweet,  close-clustered  as  it  was  among  the 
soft  green  hair  of  the  isle-grass. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  though  all  the  larks  on 
Innisron  were  singing  at  one  time  and  just 
there,  everywhere  around  and  above  him.  In 
the  birk-shaws,  there  was  a  mavis  that  was  as 
a  fount  wherefrom  music  spilled  intoxicat- 
ingly :  by  the  burn,  the  merles  called,  recalled, 
and  called  yet  again,  and  over  and  over,  sweet 
and  blithe,  and  with  loud,  reckless  cries  of 
mirth  and  joy.  On  every  gorse-bush,  yellow 
with  bloom,  fragrant  almost  to  pain,  and  filled 
with  the  murmur  of  the  wild-bee  and  the  high, 
thin  hum  of  the  wood-wasp,  a  yellow-hammer 
flitted  to  and  fro,  or  sang  its  tweet — tzveet — 
tweet — o-o-oh  sweet ! — sweet ! 

The  sky  was  almost  cloudless  save  for  an 
angry  flush  in  the  north-east — a  deep,  living 
blue  of  infinite,  though  indiscernibly  faint 
gradation.  Here  and  there,  too,  were  thin, 
almost  invisible  grey  mare's-tails  swept  up- 
ward, as  though  they  were  snow-dust  or  sea- 

66 


Pharais 

spray,  before  the  flying  feet  of  the  Weaver  of 
the  Winds. 

As  soon  as  Ian  had  reached  the  last  dyke, 
and  had  seen  "  Righ-geal "  lead  his  impatient 
following  toward  the  uplands,  he  stood  sway- 
ing his  grey  head  slowly  to  and  fro,  with  his 
right  hand  moving  automatically  in  rhythmic 
accord,  while  he  repeated  the  familiar  "  Rann 
Buacbailleac,"  or  Rune  on  the  driving  of  the 
cattle  to  the  pasture : 

i 

"Siubhal  beinne,  siubhal  baile, 

Siubhal  gu  re  fada  farsuinn; 

Buachaille  Mhic  De  m'ar  casaibh, 

Gu  mu  slan  a  thig  sibh  dachaidh, 
Buachaille  Mhic  De  m'ar  casaibh 
Gu  mu  slan  a  thig  sibh  dachaidh. 

ii 
"  Comraig,  Dhia  agus  Chalum-Chille, 
Bhith  m'ar  timchioll  a  fabh's  a  lilleadh, 
Agus  nan  or-chiabh  down! 

Agus  Banachaig  nan  basa  min-gheal, 
Bride  nan  or-chiabh  down!  " 


Travel  ye  moorland,  travel  ye  townland, 
Travel  ye  gently  far  and  wide, 

God's  Son  be  the  Herdsman  about  your  feet, 

Whole  may  ye  home  return. 

God's  Son  be  the  Herdsman  about  your  feet, 

Whole  may  ye  home  return. 

67 


Pharais 

ii 
The  protection  of  God  and  of  Columba, 
Encompass  your  going  and  coming; 

And  about  you  be  the  milkmaid  of  the  smooth 

white  palms, 
Bridget  of  the  clustering  hair,  golden  brown, 
And  about  you  be  the  milkmaid  of  the  smooth 

white  palms, 
Bridget  of  the  clustering  hair,  golden  brown! 

Turning  aside,  the  shepherd  searched  here 
and  there  among  the  boulders  and  split  rocks 
which  everywhere  obtruded  from  the  sea  of 
heather.  For  a  time  his  quest  was  unre- 
warded; but  just  as  he  was  about  to  relinquish 
it  he  gave  an  abrupt  exclamation.  He  had 
seen  the  Torranan,  that  rare  plant,  of  which 
he  had  often  heard,  but  had  never  found :  and, 
for  sure,  he  would  never  have  sought  it  there, 
for  it  was  said  to  be  a  plant  of  the  sea's  lip — 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  shore,  within  reach  of 
the  tide-breath. 

Muttering  over  and  over,  "  Buainams'  thu 
thorranain! " — Let  me  pluck  thee,  Torranan, 
— he  gained  the  precious  bloom  at  last,  and 
then,  holding  it  before  him,  half  spoke,  half 
chanted  this  ancient  incantation,  known  in  the 
isles  as  the  "  Eolas  an  Torranain,"  a  spell  of 
good  service  to  keep  the  cows  from  the  harm 
of  the  evil  eye,  and  also  to  increase  their  milk : 

68 


Pharais 

"Buainams'  thu  thoranain 

Le'd  uile  bheannachd' s  le'd  uile  bhuaidh — " 

Let  me  pluck  thee,  Torranan ! 
With  all  thy  blessedness  and  all  thy  virtue, 
The  nine  blessings  came  with  the  nine  parts, 
By  the  virtue  of  the  Torranan. 
The  hand  of  St.  Bride  with  me. 
I  am  now  to  pluck  thee. 

Let  me  pluck  thee,  Torranan! 
With  thine  increase  as  to  sea  and  land ; 
With  the  flowing  tide  that  shall  know  no  ebbing 
By  the  assistance  of  the  chaste  St.  Bride, 
The  holy  St.  Columba  directing  me, 
Gentle  Oran  protecting  me, 
And  St.  Michael,  of  high-crested  steeds, 
Imparting  virtue  to  the  matter  the  while, 
Darling  plant  of  all  virtue, 
I  am  now  plucking  thee! 

All  the  time  the  old  man  had  been  carefully 
disengaging  the  cream-white,  dome-shaped 
flower,  he  had  crooned  over  and  over : 

"  Lamh  Bhride  learn, 
Tha  mi  'nis  ga'd  bhuain!  " 

The  hand  of  St.  Bride  with  me 
I  am  now  to  pluck  thee! 

So,  too,  now — now  that  he  had  the  Tor- 
ranan safe  at  last,  he  kept  repeating: 

69 


Pharais 

"  'Cuir  buaidh  anns  an  ni, 
Tha  mo  lus  lurach  a  nis  air  a  bhuain  !  " 

Darling  plant  of  all  virtue, 
I  am  now  plucking  thee! 

But  the  line  that  was  on  his  lips  for  long 
that  day — even  after  he  had  given  the  flower 
to  Mary  Maclean,  with  assurance  that  it  was 
gathered  during  the  lift  of  the  tide,  was 
Ri  lionadh  gun  tra'adh — "  With  the  flow- 
ing tide  that  shall  know  no  ebbing."  Over 
and  over  he  said  this  below  his  breath.  Ri 
lionadh  gun  tra'adh;  strange  words  these: 
what  was  the  hidden  thing  in  them?  What 
was  the  lionadh,  the  flowing  tide :  was  it  life 
or  death? 

But  now  the  rare  bloom  was  found :  he  was 
glad  of  that.  He  doffed  his  weather-worn 
bonnet,  and  placed  the  flower  in  the  hollow 
of  it:  then,  calling  Ghaoth  from  the  already 
scattered  kye,  he  turned  and  made  his  way 
back  to  the  clachan. 

When  he  entered  Mrs.  Maclean's  cottage, 
where  his  breakfast  of  porridge  was  ready,  he 
made  and  received  the  usual  salutation  of 
blessing:  and  then  sat  down  in  silence. 

The  room  was  full  of  sunlight — so  full  that 
Mrs.  Maclean  had  hung  a  screen  of  bracken 
from   an   iron   hook,   so  that   it  shielded   the 

70 


Pharais 

peat-fire  and  let  the  life  of  the  flame  burn 
unchecked. 

He  did  not  look  at  Alastair;  and,  indeed, 
all  the  morning-blitheness  had  gone  out  of  the 
eyes  of  the  old  man.  Not  that  any  there 
noticed  his  taciturnity.  Mrs.  Maclean  moved 
softly  to  and  fro.  Alastair  sat  broodingly  in 
the  leathern  chair  before  the  fire:  Lora  on  a 
stool  at  his  feet,  with  her  right  hand  clasped  in 
his  left  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  On  the 
table  the  porridge  was  untouched,  the  new 
bread  uncut,  the  warm  milk  grown  tepid. 

With  a  sigh,  Alastair  rose  at  last.  Crossing 
the  room,  he  went  to  the  east  window  and 
stared  forth  unseeingly,  or,  at  any  rate,  with- 
out sign  of  any  kind.  Then,  restlessly,  he 
began  to  pace  to  and  fro.  Repressing  her 
tears,  Lora  seated  herself  at  the  table  and 
tried  to  eat,  hopeful  that  she  might  thus  in- 
duce him  to  do  likewise.  Mrs.  Maclean  fol- 
lowed her  example,  but  ate  in  silence.  She 
had  almost  ended,  when  Lora  saw  that  she 
had  abruptly  laid  down  her  spoon  and  was 
looking  intently  at  Ian. 

The  old  man  now  followed  every  motion  of 
the  invalid  with  a  look  as  of  one  fascinated. 
When,  suddenly,  Alastair  turned,  went  to  the 
door  and  crossed  the  threshold,  Ian  rose  and 
followed. 

71 


Pharais 

A  few  seconds  later  he  came  back,  his  with- 
ered face  almost  as  white  as  his  hair. 

Mrs.  Maclean  met  him  ere  he  could  speak. 

;<  Not  a  word  before  her,"  she  whispered. 
"  Meet  me  at  the  byre :  I  shall  be  there  in  a 
minute  or  two." 

But  just  then  Lora  rose  and  went  out. 

"  Ian  Maclean,  what  is  it?  " 

"  Mary,  my  kinswoman,  he  is  not  alone." 

"Not  alone?" 

"  I  have  seen  the  other." 

She  knew  now  what  he  meant.  He  had  seen 
the  shadow-self,  the  phantasm  of  the  living 
that,  ere  death,  is  often  seen  alongside  the  one 
who  shall  soon  die.  Mrs.  Maclean  knew  well 
that  this  shadowy  second-self  simulated  the 
real  self,  and  that  even  all  the  actions  of  the 
body  were  reproduced  with  a  grotesque  veri- 
similitude. But  she  was  also  aware  how, 
sometimes,  one  may  learn  from  the  mien  of 
the  phantasm  what  is  hidden  in  the  aspect  of 
the  doomed. 

"  Last  night,"  Ian  went  on  in  a  dull  voice, 
"  I  had  the  sight  again.  I  saw  the  mist  of 
death  as  high  about  him  as  when  a  man  is 
sunken  in  a  peat-bog  up  to  the  eyes." 

"  Well  ?    I  know  you  have  more  to  say." 

"  Ay." 

"  Speak,  Ian !  " 

72 


Pharais 

With  a  long,  indrawn  breath,  the  old  man 
resumed  in  a  slow,  reluctant  voice. 

"  When  I  came  in,  a  little  ago,  I  saw  the 
sorrow  there  was  on  every  face.  My  vision, 
too,  came  back  upon  me,  and  I  had  trouble. 
I  meant  to  eat  and  go  out  quickly.  But  when 
Mr.  Alastair  began  to  move  about,  I  saw  that 
he  was  not  alone.  I  knew  the  other  at  once. 
There  could  be  no  mistake.  In  dress,  in 
height,  in  face,  in  movement,  they  were  the 
same.    But  there  was  a  difference." 

Mrs.  Maclean  shuddered  slightly,  and  her 
lips  opened  as  though  she  were  about  to  speak. 
With  a  gesture,  however,  she  signed  to  Ian  to 
continue. 

"  Ay,  there  was  a  difference.  I  hoped 
against  my  eyes ;  but  when  I  followed  him 
yonder  I  saw  what  I  saw,  and  what  killed  my 
hope." 

"  Speak,  speak,  Ian !  " 

:'  In  all  things,  the  same  but  one,  and  that 
was  in  the  eyes,  in  the  expression.  Those  of 
Mr.  Alastair  were  dull  and  lightless,  and 
brooding  low;  those  of  the  other  were  large 
and  wild,  and  stared  in  terror  and  amaze ;  and 
on  the  face  of  the  thing  the  Fear  lay,  and 
moved,  and  was  alive." 

"O  Ian,  Ian,  what  does  it  mean?" 

"  It  means  this,   Mary,   daughter   of  Don- 

73 


Pharais 

nacha,  what,  sure,  you  know  well :  that  not 
only  is  the  shadow  of  death  near  this  house, 
but  that  upon  Alastair  Mac  Diarmid  is  the 
mind-dark  that  lay  upon  his  father  and  upon 
his  father's  father." 

"  The  curse  of  Michael  be  upon  this  evil, 
Ian !  " 

"  Even  so,  Mhoire  nighean  Donnacha." 

"  His  father  was  the  third  of  his  race  in 
succession,  who,  soon  or  late,  fell  under  that 
shadow.  And  we  all  know,  sure  we  all  know, 
that  after  the  third  generation  the  veil  is  with- 
drawn. This  thing  is  an  evil  dream  of  yours, 
Ian  Maclean !  " 

"  It  is  an  evil  doing  of  some  one,"  muttered 
the  old  man,  with  sombre  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  "— 

But  before  Mrs.  Maclean  could  say  what 
was  in  her  mind,  Alastair  and  Lora  entered. 

With  downcast  eyes  Ian  passed  out,  giving  a 
furtive,  terrified  look  behind  him  ere  he  closed 
the  door. 

It  was  through  the  old  islesman  that  the 
rumour  of  Alastair  Macleod's  madness  went 
abroad. 

Long  before  the  stormy  afternoon  which  fol- 
lowed the  beautiful  youth  of  that  day,  with  its 
ominous  morning-red   in   the  north-east,  had 

74 


Pharais 

waned  to  gloaming,  there  was  not  a  soul  on 
Innisron  who  did  not  know  of  the  sorrow. 

Yet  no  one  came  near  out  of  a  cruel  sym- 
pathy :  no  one  spoke  heedless  words  either  of 
question  or  solace  to  Mrs.  Maclean ;  for  none 
could  be  said  to  the  two  most  concerned, 
neither  Alastair  nor  Lora  having  been  seen 
throughout  the  day. 

Nevertheless,  a  deep  resentment  prevailed 
against  one  person  upon  the  island.  Not  only 
had  the  spring  gone  ill  with  the  fishing,  but 
the  nets  had  been  torn  and  trailed  in  a  way 
that  suggested  something  beyond  the  blind 
malice  of  wind  and  wave  and  the  currents  of 
the  deep  sea  and  the  savage  dog-fish.  Several 
cows  had  ceased  to  give  milk;  hens  had 
ceased  to  lay;  and  Gregor  McGregor's  white 
mare  had  dropped  a  dead  foal,  the  first  time 
such  a  thing  had  happened  on  the  isle.  And 
now  that,  unforeseen  and  in  the  heyday  of 
youth  and  health,  the  worst  of  all  troubles  had 
come  upon  Alastair  Macleod,  many  recalled 
how  his  father,  Macleod  of  Dunvrechan,  who 
had  died  on  Innisron,  had  not  only  once  de- 
nounced old  Ealasaid  MacAodh  as  a  woman 
of  the  evil  eye,  but  had  cursed  her  ere  he  died, 
and  attributed  his  misery  to  a  blight  of  her 
working. 

As  one  spake  to  another,  the  same  thought 

75 


Pharais 

came  into  each  mind :  that  the  old  widow  who 
lived  at  Craig-Ruaidh,  at  the  head  of  the  Glen 
of  the  Dark  Water,  had  put  her  malice  upon 
Alastair  Mac  Diarmid. 

Some  one,  in  a  group  by  the  ferry,  reminded 
her  hearers  that,  by  a  mischance,  every  one 
on  the  isle  save  Widow  MacAodh  had  been 
invited  to  the  feast  in  the  little  mission-house, 
when  "  Lora  nighcan  maighstir  Tormaid  "  was 
wedded;  and  how  it  was  well  known  that  old 
Ealasaid  had  been  full  of  anger  and  pain  at 
the  slight,  and  had  since  scarce  spoken  with 
any  one  save  Mrs.  Maclean,  with  whom  no 
bitterness  was  ever  long  to  endure. 

"  Ay,  ay,  it's  her  doing — it's  her  doing," 
was  muttered  all  round ;  "  she  has  put  the  spell 
of  the  evil  eye  upon  him — foreigner  that  she 
is." 

Many  years  had  gone  by  since  Duncan  ban 
MacAodh,  a  Hebridean,  who  had  settled  in 
Innisron,  brought  thither  a  wife  out  of  remote 
St.  Kilda.  Long  since  he  had  gone  to  his  rest, 
and  lay  among  the  few  dead  under  the  great 
runic  cross  at  the  extreme  of  Ardfeulan,  on 
the  west  of  the  isle ;  yet  he  was  still  "  the  man 
from  Uist,"  as  his  widow  was  still  the  "  out- 
lander." 

"  Ian,"  said  Pol  Macdonald,  one  of  the  old- 
est of  the  fishermen,  "  you  too  are  said  to 

76 


Pharais 

have  the  thing  in  yon,  though  you  always  look 
through  both  eyes,  and  with  good  will  to  man 
and  beast.  Let  you,  and  two  others  of  us,  go 
to-night  to  Widow  Ealasaid's,  do  upon  her  and 
find  out  if  she  is  accursed :  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  . 
and  then  .  .  ." 

No  one  spoke,  though  a  veiled  consenting 
glance  went  between  Macdonald  and  Ian  and 
a  young  islesman,  Ronald  Macrae,  who  lived 
over  by  Ardfeulan. 

It  was  not  a  subject  to  discuss  further  in 
that  hour  of  uncertainty.  One  or  two  mem- 
bers of  the  group  had  already  edged  away, 
when  Kathia  Macdonald  suddenly  drew  atten- 
tion to  the  appearance  of  the  first  three  of  the 
returning  herring-boats,  anxiously  expected 
for  over  an  hour  past. 

The  brown-sailed  wherries  came  in  under 
the  lee  of  the  isle  in  a  smother  of  foam.  Al- 
ready a  snarling  north-easter  was  racing  over 
the  sea,  still  smelling  of  the  ling  and  bracken  it 
had  flattened  as  it  tore  over  the  summits  of  the 
mainland  hills. 

The  water  was  of  a  shifting  emerald  near 
the  haven  ;  of  a  dark  bottle-green  beyond  ;  and, 
out  in  the  open,  black,  fretted  and  torn  with 
staring  white  splashes  and  a  myriad-leaping 
surge. 

The  race  of  the  sea-horses  had  begun,  and 

77 


Pharais 

no  one  on  Innisron  was  at  ease  till  the  last 
boat  had  come  safely  round  from  Ardgheal, 
the  point  whence  on  the  yestereve  Lora  had  so 
eagerly  watched  for  the  coming  of  her  hus- 
band. 

A  fiery  sunset  disclosed  the  immense  and 
swirling  procession  of  clouds  high  over  the 
isle — cloud  not  only  racing  after  cloud,  but 
often  leaping  one  upon  the  other  as  flying 
sheep  in  panic.  Toward  the  east,  the  vapours 
were  larger  and  darker:  the  cohorts  more 
densely  massed.  Above  the  mainland  stretched 
one  vast  unbroken  phalanx  of  purple-livid 
gloom,  out  of  the  incessant  and  spasmodically 
convulsive  travail  in  whose  depths  swept  mon- 
strous cloudbirths. 

As  the  night  fell,  there  was  audible  beyond 
the  hills  the  noise  of  a  baffled  thunderstorm — 
a  tempest  which  had  been  caught  among  the 
mountains,  and  could  no  more  lift  itself  over 
the  summits  than  a  screaming  and  wrestling 
eagle  could  tear  itself  from  a  stag  in  whose 
hide  its  talons  had  become  irremovably 
gripped. 

Above  the  peaks  and  along  the  flank  of  the 
mass  of  livid  gloom,  spears  of  lightning  were 
swung  against  the  wind  ;  and  with  splinter  and 
flash,  there  was  a  rain  of  whirled  lances  as 
against  some  unseen  assault  from  below. 

78 


Pharais 

The  tumult  soared,  hurled  downward,  and 
fell  upon  Innisron.  The  isle-folk  listened  in 
the  dark  with  awe.  Roar  and  crash,  and  a 
frightful,  terrifying  howling  followed  every 
blast,  as  of  a  volcano  belching  forth  avalanche 
after  avalanche,  and  shaking  to  the  valleys  the 
debris  of  all  the  hills.  Roar  upon  roar,  crash 
upon  crash,  howl  upon  howl :  with  the  strident 
raucous  scream  of  the  wind,  yelling  a  paean  of 
triumph  as  it  leaped  before  the  javelins  of  the 
lightning  and  tore  in  its  ruinous  might  far  out 
across  the  heaving,  swaying,  moaning  sea. 

It  was  a  night  for  all  who  fare  by  or  upon 
the  deep  waters  to  remember  with  awe:  for 
those  whose  lives,  and  kin,  and  gear  had  gone 
scatheless,  to  recollect  with  thanksgiving:  for 
those  whose  weal  went  with  it,  to  recall  with 
bowed  heads  or  wet  eyes. 

An  hour  or  more  after  nightfall,  three  fig- 
ures moved  with  the  wind  across  the  isle: 
blurred  shadows  astir  in  the  tempest-riven 
dark.  Ronald  Macrae  carried  a  lantern;  but 
speedily  laid  it  down  by  a  cairn,  for  the  flame 
could  not  live. 

He  and  Ian  and  Pol  were  grimly  silent,  not 
only  on  the  path  through  the  wind-swept 
heather,  but  when  under  shelter  from  a  bight 
of  hillside  or  overhanging  crag.    The  business 

79 


Pharais 

that  took  them  out  in  that  tempest  lay  heavy 
upon  them. 

If,  out  of  her  own  mouth,  or  by  sign  or  deed 
of  her  own,  Ealasaid  should  convict  herself 
of  the  use  of  the  evil  eye,  her  doom  would  be 
fixed.  Even  in  the  bitterness  of  superstition, 
however,  the  islesmen  were  not  bent  upon  the 
extreme  penalty,  the  meed  of  those  who  deal 
in  witchcraft.  The  dwellers  on  Innisron,  as 
all  who  live  among  the  outer  isles  in  general, 
are  too  near  the  loneliness  of  life  and  death 
to  be  wanton  in  the  taking  away  of  that  which 
is  so  great  in  the  eyes  of  man  and  so  small  in 
the  eyes  of  God. 

The  worst  they  intended  was  to  make  Eala- 
said bring  her  own  doom  upon  her:  then,  on 
the  morrow,  her  sheiling  would  be  burned  to 
the  ground  and  the  ashes  scattered  to  the  four 
quarters,  while  she  herself  would  be  exiled 
from  the  island  under  ban  of  cross,  mystic 
word,  and  the  ancient  Celtic  anathema. 

So  wild  was  the  wind  and  dark  the  way, 
that  a  full  hour  passed  before  they  reached  the 
Glen  of  the  Dark  Water,  and  heard  the  savage 
ramping  and  charging  of  the  endless  squad- 
rons of  the  waves  against  the  promontory  of 
Ardfeulan. 

As  they  drew  near  the  little  cottage,  a  lonely 
dwelling  on  the  brae  which  sloped  to  the  glen, 

80 


Pharais 

they  saw  that  the  occupant  had  not  yet  gone  to 
bed,  for  a  red  gleam  of  light  stole  comfortingly 
across  the  forlorn  dark. 

With  a  significant  touch  on  the  shoulder  of 
each  of  his  companions,  Ian  led  them  to  within 
a  yard  or  two  of  the  window. 

"  Hush,"  he  whispered,  in  a  momentary  lull ; 
"  make  no  noise  as  we  look  in.  She  might 
hear,  and  blast  us  with  her  evil  eye.  Perhaps 
she  is  even  now  talking  with  some  warlock  or 
fiend." 

Trembling,  the  three  men  huddled  under  the 
wall.  At  last,  slowly,  and  with  hearts  wildly 
a-throb,  they  raised  themselves  and  looked 
within. 

The  room  was  bare  in  its  clean  poverty.  On 
the  rickety  wooden  table  was  a  bowl  with  a 
little  unfinished  porridge  in  it.  A  yard  away 
was  an  open  Gaelic  Bible,  with  a  pair  of  horn 
spectacles  laid  across  the  open  page.  At  a 
spinning  stool  between  the  table  and  the  peat- 
fire  was  an  old  woman,  kneeling,  with  her 
hands  clasped  and  her  face  upraised.  On  the 
poor,  tired,  worn  features  was  a  look  of 
pathetic  yearning,  straining  from  a  white  and 
beautiful  peace. 

So  rapt  was  she  that  she  did  not  see  a  hand 
move  the  outer  latch  of  the  window,  or  feel 
the  sudden  breath  of  the  night-air. 

81 


Pharais 

Then  those  without,  waiting  to  hearken  to 
sorcery  more  appalling  than  the  savagery  of 
the  tempest,  heard  old  Ealasaid  repeat  this 
prayer : 

"  Tha  'n  la  n is  air  falbh  uainn, 
Tha  'n  oidhdie  'tighinn  orm  dliith; 
'S  ni  mise  luidhe  gu  dion 
Fo  dhubhar  sgiatl:  mo  ruin. 
O  gach  cunnart  's  o  gach  has, 
'S  o  gach  namhaid  th'  aig  Mac  Dhe, 

0  nadur  dhaoine  borba, 

'S  o  choirbteachd  mo  naduir  ft  in, 
Gabhaidh  mis'  a  nis  armachd  Dhe, 
Gun  bhi  reubta  no  brisd', 
'Sge  b'  oil  leis  an  f  satan  's  le  phdirt 
Bi'dh  mis'  air  mo  gheard  a  nis." 

The  day  is  now  gone; 
Dark  night  gathers  around, 
And  I  will  lay  me  safely  down  (to  sleep) 
Under  the  shadow  of  my  Beloved  One's  wing. 
Against  all  dangers,  and  death  in  every  form, 
Against  each  enemy  of  God's  good  Son, 
Against  the  anger  of  the  turbulent  people, 
And  against  the  corruption  of  my  own  nature, 

1  will  take  unto  me  the  armour  of  God — 
That  shall  protect  me  from  all  assaults: 
And  in  spite  of  Satan  and  all  his  following, 
I  shall  be  well  and  surelv  guarded. 


\J    a"- 


When,  after  an  interval  of  speechless  prayer, 

the  lonely  old  woman  rose  painfully  to  her  feet, 

82 


Pharais 

she  noticed  the  open  window,  and  heard  the 
sough  of  the  wind  without. 

With  a  tired  sigh,  she  crossed  the  room  to 
close  the  inside  latch.  But,  at  the  window,  she 
stood  irresolute,  held  by  the  noise  of  the  sea 
beating  against  the  clamour  of  the  wind.  She 
stooped,  and  peered  forth. 

Not  a  thing  was  visible.  Suddenly  a  broad 
wavering  gleam  of  sheet-lightning  lit  up  the 
whole  brae.  Almost,  she  fancied,  she  could 
have  sworn  she  saw  three  human  figures,  with 
bowed  heads,  moving  across  the  brow  of  the 
slope. 

She  could  not  know  that  three  men,  stricken 
with  shame  and  remorse — remorse  which 
would  ere  long  bloom  into  the  white  flower  of 
repentance,  to  be  worn  lovingly  by  all  on  the 
isle — were  stealing  homeward  from  a  vain  and 
wicked  errand. 

With  a  shudder,  she  crossed  herself,  fear- 
ing that  the  figures  she  had  imagined,  or 
had  really  seen,  were  the  three  dreadful  Ac- 
cursed who  drove  the  spear  into  Christ's 
side  and  the  nails  into  His  hands  and  feet, 
and  with  mocking  offered  Him  the  bitter 
sponge. 

Slowly  repeating: 

"  O  gach  cunnart  's  o  gach  bas, 
'S  o  gach  namhaid  th'  aig  Mac  Dhe," 

83 


Pharais 

she  quenched  with  charred  peat  the  flame  of 
her  fire,  and  was  soon  in  a  child-like  rest 
"  under  the  shadow  of  the  wing  of  her  Be- 
loved One." 

When  midnight  came  upon  the  isle,  the 
worst  violence  of  the  storm  was  over.  Never- 
theless, upon  the  sea  was  the  awfulness  of  des- 
olation, the  rumour  of  a  terrible  wrath. 

All  slept  at  last:  the  innocent  Ealasaid,  the 
foolish  seekers  of  evil,  the  isle-folk  one  and  all 
— except  two. 

Alastair  and  Lora  lay  in  each  others'  arms 
as  children  terrified  in  the  dark. 

That  afternoon  his  madness  had  come  upon 
him  for  a  while ;  and  he  had  smiled  grimly  at 
he  knew  not  what,  and  laughed  while  the  tears 
streamed  from  the  eyes  of  Lora  and  Mary ; 
and  moaned  betimes ;  and  cried  out  against  the 
calling  of  the  sea ;  and  closed  his  ears  against 
the  frightful  wailing  of  a  kelpie  in  the  tarn 
beyond  the  byre ;  and,  at  the  last,  shook  as  in 
an  ague  before  the  fire,  fearful  of  some  infor- 
mulate  terror,  but  with  such  a  crown  of  sorrow 
on  his  forehead  that  the  two  women  bowed 
their  faces  in  their  hands,  speechless  with 
grief:  with  such  a  horror  in  his  eyes  that 
Ghaoth  shrank  from  him  with  bristling  fell 
and  upcurled,  snarling  lip. 

84 


Pharais 

But  with  the  night  came  yet  another  merciful 
lifting  of  the  veil. 

While  the  storm  raged  at  its  worst,  the  three 
kneeled,  and  Mrs.  Maclean  read  from  the 
beautiful  Gaelic  Scripture.  Then,  with  all  the 
tenderness  of  her  childless  passion  of  mater- 
nity, she  prayed  for  God's  balm  and  peace  and 
the  healing  of  His  hand. 

When,  in  time,  she  went  to  her  own  room, 
Alastair  and  Lora  talked  for  long  in  a  low 
voice. 

On  the  day  he  had  first  heard  that  the  seed 
of  life  had  taken  root  in  her  womb,  and  knew 
that  a  child  was  to  be  born  of  their  great  love, 
he  had  known  a  thrill  of  such  rapture  that  he 
could  scarce  see  Lora  for  the  blinding  of  the 
tears  of  joy. 

Beautiful  she  was  to  all :  to  him,  lovely  and 
tender  as  twilight  and  dear  beyond  words :  but 
at  that  moment,  when  he  learned  from  her  own 
lips  of  her  only  half  explicable  trouble,  he 
knew  he  had  passed  into  a  Holy  of  Holies  of 
love  and  reverent  passion  such  as  he  had  but 
vaguely  dreamed  of  as  possible. 

But  now,  on  this  wild  night  of  storm  with- 
out and  more  awful  dread  within,  he  recalled 
with  horror  what  had  been  driven  from  his 
mind. 

Bitter  as  was  the  doom  he  and  Lora  had  to 

85 


Pharais 

face,  tenfold  bitter  was  it  made  by  the  thought 
that  they  were  to  bring  into  the  world  yet  an- 
other soul  shrouded  in  the  shadow  of  his  own 
intolerable  ill. 

And  so  it  was  that,  at  the  last,  Alastair  and 
Lora  Macleod,  knowing  his  madness  was  at 
hand  and  could  be  cured  of  no  man,  and  that 
their  lives  were  spilled  out  as  lees  from  a  cup, 
and  that  they  were  witlessly  dooming  the  un- 
born child  to  a  heritage  of  grief,  gave  solemn 
troth  to  each  other  that  on  the  morrow  they 
would  go  forth  hand  in  hand,  and,  together  in 
death  as  in  life,  lay  themselves  beneath  that 
ever-wandering  yet  ever-returning  wave  which 
beats  day  and  night,  and  week  by  week,  and 
year  by  year,  and  without  end  for  ever,  about 
the  sea-gathered  graveyard  on  the  remote  west 
of  Tnnisron. 

Then  was  a  great  peace  theirs.  For  the  last 
time  they  laid  themselves  down  on  their  bed : 
for  the  last  time  twined  their  arms  around  each 
other,  while  on  the  same  pillow  their  heads  lay 
side  by  side,  the  hair  about  his  forehead  wet 
with  her  falling  tears:  for  the  last  time  they 
kept  vigil  through  the  terror  of  the  dark — an 
awful  terror  now,  with  the  wrath  of  the  sea 
without,  with  the  shadow  of  Death  within 
the  room,  with  the  blackness  of  oblivion 
creeping,  creeping  from  chamber  to  chamber 

86 


Pharais 

in  the  darkened  house  of  a  dulled,  subsiding 
brain. 

Ere  dawn,  Alastair  slept.  Lora  lay  awake, 
trembling,  longing  for  the  day,  yet  praying 
God  to  withhold  it;  sick  with  baffled  hope, 
with  the  ache  of  weariness,  with  the  sound  of 
the  moan  and  hollow  boom  of  the  sea.  More 
deep  and  terrible  in  her  ears  grew  that  mid- 
night Voice,  reverberant  in  the  room  as  in  the 
whorl  of  a  shell :  a  dreadful  iterance  of  men- 
ace, a  dirge  that  confusedly  she  seemed  to 
know  well,  a  swelling  chant,  a  requiem. 


IV 


An  hour  after  sunrise  there  was  not  a  cloud 
in  the  sky.  The  first  day  of  June  came 
clad  in  the  fullness  of  summer.  Sea  and  land 
seemed  as  though  they  had  been  immersed  in 
that  Fount  of  Life  which  wells  from  the  hol- 
low of  the  Hand  which  upholdeth  Tir-na-h' 
Oighe,  the  isle  of  eternal  youth. 

The  low  island-trees  had  not  suffered  as  had 
those  on  the  mainland :  yet  everywhere  were 
strewn  branches,  and,  on  the  uplands,  boughs 
wrenched  away,  and  often  hurled  far  from  the 
parent  tree. 

But  upon  all  the  isle  there  was  now  a  deep 

87 


Pharais 

quiescence.  In  the  warm  languor,  even  the 
birds  sang  less  wildly  clear,  though  the  high, 
remote,  falling  lark-music  floated  spirally 
earthward,  poignantly  sweet.  An  indescribably 
delicate  shimmer  of  haze  lay  on  the  heights  and 
pastures,  and  where  the  corries  sloped  jaggedly 
seaward,  each  with  a  singing  burn  splashing  or 
wimpling  adown  its  heart.  From  the  uplands 
came  the  lowing  of  the  kine,  the  bleating  of 
the  ewes  and  lambs,  the  rapid  whirring  gurgle 
of  the  grouse  among  the  heather.  The  wailing 
of  curlews  rose  and  fell ;  the  sharp  cries  of  the 
cliff-hawks  beat  against  Craig-Ruaidh.  High 
overhead,  as  motionlessly  in  motion  as  the 
snow-white  disc  of  the  moon  lying  immeasur- 
ably more  remote  within  the  vast  blue  hollow 
of  the  sky,  an  eagle  poised  on  outspread  wings, 
and  then,  without  visible  effort  or  movement, 
drifted  slowly  out  of  sight  like  a  cloud  blown 
by  the  wind. 

Only  upon  the  sea  was  something  of  the 
tumult  of  the  past  night  still  a  reality. 

Around  the  isle,  and  in  the  wide  Sound  be- 
tween it  and  the  mainland,  the  "  white  sheep  " 
moved  in  endless  procession,  no  longer  wildly 
dispersed  and  huddled  and  torn  by  the  wolves 
of  the  tempest.  Oceanward  the  sea-horses 
swept  onward  magnificently,  champing  and 
whirling  white  foam  about  their  green  flanks, 

88 


Pharais 

and  tossing  on  high  their  manes  of  sunlit  rain- 
bow gold,  dazzling-white  and  multitudinous  far 
as  sight  could  reach. 

Clamour  of  gulls,  noise  of  waves,  lisp  and 
chime  and  flute-call  of  the  shallows  among  the 
rock-holes  and  upon  the  whispering  tongues  of 
the  sea-weed — what  joy,  and  stir,  and  breath 
of  life! 

Hand  in  hand,  in  the  hot  noon,  Lora  and 
Alastair  went  idly  along  the  sheep-path  leading 
from  the  clachan  to  the  promontory  of  Ard- 
gheal.  The  smell  of  the  brine  from  the  sea 
and  wrack-strewn  shore,  the  sun-wrought  frag- 
rance of  the  grass  and  thyme,  of  bracken 
and  gale,  of  birch  and  hawthorn  and  trailing 
briar,  of  the  whole,  beautiful,  living,  warm 
body  of  the  earth  so  lay  upon  the  tired 
senses  with  a  healing  as  of  balm,  that  even 
the  tears  in  Lora's  eyes  ceased  to  gather,  leav- 
ing there  only  a  softness  as  of  twilight-dew  in 
violets. 

It  was  to  be  their  last  walk  in  the  sunshine 
of  that  day— their  last  participate  in  the  sun- 
shine of  life. 

All  the  morning  had  been  spent  by  Alastair 
in  writing  and  brooding.  Once  again  he  had 
talked  over  with  Lora  that  projected  deed, 
which  to  them  seemed  the  one  right  and  fitting 
end  to  the  tragedy  of  circumstance.     She  had 

89 


Pharais 

promised  that  even  if  the  darkness  came  down 
upon  his  mind  irretrievably  she  would  fulfill 
her  troth  with  him.  Great  love  casteth  out 
fear ;  but  even  if  this  had  not  been  so  with  her, 
she  bore  in  mind  the  menace  of  what  he  had 
said  about  the  child. 

She,  too,  had  spent  a  little  of  that  last  morn- 
ing in  writing,  though  her  letter  was  not  to 
go  across  the  sea  to  the  mainland,  but  to  be 
left  with  old  Ian  to  give  to  Mary  on  the 
morrow. 

It  was  close  upon  noon  when  she  saw  that 
Alastair's  gloom  was  upon  him  again,  though 
he  was  now  as  quiet  as  a  child.  Taking  his 
hand,  she  led  him  forth,  heedful  to  avoid  the 
clachan,  and  vaguely  wishful  to  visit  once  more 
that  little  eastern  haven  of  Ardgheal  where, 
but  two  days  ago,  she  had  longingly  awaited 
Alastair's  return,  and  where,  months  before,  he 
had  first  won  her  love. 

He  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  the  sight  of 
the  sea  he  loved  so  well,  and  in  the  songs  of 
the  birds,  and  to  be  vaguely  displeased  because 
Ghaoth  would  not  leap  to  his  caress  as  usual, 
or  else  would  crouch  at  his  feet  with  startled 
eyes  and  low  whine. 

When  Lora  spoke,  he  answered  seldom ;  but 
when  he  did,  she  knew  that  he  understood. 
Once  or  twice  he  looked  at  her  strangely ;  and 

90 


Pharais 

once,  with  a  thrill  of  awe  and  dread,  she  saw 
that  it  was  unrecognisingly. 

She  caught  the  fragment  of  an  Eolas,  a  spell, 
as  his  lips  moved ;  and  the  fear  was  upon  her 
because  of  the  mystery  behind  the  words : 

'"S  i'n  t-suil  a  chi, 
'S  e'en  cridlte  a  stnuainicheas , 
'S  i'n  teanga  'labhras: 
'S  mise'n  Triuir  qu  tilleadh  so  ortsa, 

Lora-ino-bean, 
An  ainm  an  AtJiar,  a  Mhic,  's  an 
Spioraidh  Naoitnh!" 

'T  is  the  eye  that  sees, 

'T  is  the  heart  that  thinks, 

'T  is  the  tongue  that  speaks : 

I  am  the  Three  to  turn  this  off  to  you, 

Lora,  my  wife: 
In  the  name  of  the  Father,  of  the  Son, 

and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

With  a  sob,  she  turned  and  put  her  arms 
about  him.  Never  had  he  seemed  so  fair  in 
her  sight — tall  and  comely  as  a  young  pine,  of 
a  beauty  beyond  that  of  any  man  she  had  ever 
seen.  No  wonder  that  her  father,  familiar 
lover  of  the  Ossianic  ballads,  had  been  wont, 
remembering  the  beauty  of  the  second  son  of 
Usnoth,  lord  of  Etha,  to  call  Alastair  Ailthos. 

"  Dear,  my  dear  one,  Ailthos,  Alastair !  "  she 

9i 


Pharais 

cried,  clinging  close.  "  Look  at  me !  Speak 
to  me !     Do  you  not  know  me  ?  " 

Slowly  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her,  and 
after  a  brief  perplexity  the  shadow  went  out 
of  them,  and  he  smiled  gently. 

"  Let  us  go  home,  my  fawn,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  am  tired.  It  would  be  too  sad  to  go  down 
to  Ardgheal." 

He  had  already  caught  sight  of  the  smoke  of 
a  steamer  beyond  Dunmore  Point ;  and  fearing 
that  it  might  be  the  Clansman — for  he  thought 
the  hour  much  later  than  it  was — he  hoped  to 
spare  Lora  another  needless  pang.  Moreover, 
his  growing  dread  of  seeing  any  one  was 
stronger  than  ever  upon  him. 

So  they  turned  thus  soon  even  in  that  last 
sunshine,  and  entering  the  cottage,  sat  before 
the  smouldering  peat-fire ;  he  brooding  darkly, 
Lora  dreaming  through  her  slow-welling  tears, 
and  both  .  .  .  waiting. 

Though,  at  dusk,  a  heavy  sea  still  ran,  it  was 
partly  due  to  the  surge  of  the  ground-swell  and 
to  the  turbulence  of  the  tide,  for  there  was 
but  little  wind  even  away  from  the  shelter  of 
the  isle,  and  what  there  was  came  mostly  in 
short,  sudden  puffs  and  wandering  breaths. 

In  the  quietude  of  the  gloaming,  it  was  as 
though  the  sea  called  all  round  Innisron  as  a 

92 


Pharais 

beast  of  prey  stalks 'about  a  high  sheepfold, 
growling,  breathing  heavily,  ravening. 

After  the  supper,  eaten  frugally  and  in 
silence,  Lora  and  Alastair  listened  once  again 
to  the  peat-prayer  and  the  Blessing  of  Peace 
of  Mrs.  Maclean ;  then,  not  daring  to  say  any 
word  to  her  but  that  of  a  husky  farewell  for 
the  night,  and  fearful  even  of  meeting  the 
glance  of  her  quiet  eyes,  they  went  to  their 
room,  there  to  sit  silently  awhile  in  the  dark- 
ness, hand  in  hand. 

No  one  saw  them  leave  the  cottage  an  hour 
later:  not  a  soul  heard  them  as  they  passed 
through  the  clachan. 

The  road  they  chose  was  that  sheep-path 
through  the  heather  which  led  to  Ardfeulan  by 
the  Glen  of  the  Dark  Water.  Each  knew  the 
way  well,  otherwise  their  faring  westward 
would  have  been  difficult,  for  the  sky  was 
veiled  by  a  thin  mist  and  the  moon  was  not 
visible. 

They  walked  in  silence ;  sometimes  Lora  in 
advance,  but,  whenever  practicable,  together, 
and  hand  in  hand. 

At  last  they  reached  the  Glen  of  the  Dark 
Water,  and  perceived  through  the  gloaming 
the  sheiling  of  Ealasaid  MacAodh.  This  they 
skirted,  and  then  entered  a  sloping  hollow, 
at  the  base  of  which  was  audible  the  hoarse 

93 


Pharais 

murmuring  of  the  sea.     Lora  knew  the  place 

IL     A  week  ago  she  had  been  there  with 

and  remembered  that  the  whole  slope 

was  a  m;  moonflowers,  tall,  white,  and 

that  the  green  stems  could 

hardly  en.* 

The  wan  glimnv  -         "em  was  perceptible 
the  milky  way  on  a  night  when  a 
faint  fro<-t-mi-t  prevail-.     Around,  there  was 
nothing  e  Ac.     Not  a  tree  grew  in  that 

place:  not  a  crag  r<  I  of  the  death- 

white   bloorr         The    low-hanging   mi-t-cloud 
led  all  things.     It  v.  hough  the  grave 

had  been  :.  and  thi  the  gloom 

the  Deat!  land  that  lie-   beyond.     Only 

there  is  eterr  ice:  here,  the  dull  menace 

•he  sea  made  a  a  murmur  about  the 

cure  c 

ntered  the  valley  of  moonflowers, 

dimly  seeing  their  way  a   few  yards  beyond 

them,  and  hearkening  to  the  inwash  and  re- 

'^ence  of  the  tide  moving  along  the  extreme 

f  the  land,  a  sei  akable 

dread  came  over  Ala-tair  and  Lora. 

They  stood  still,  hardly  daring  to  breathe, 
-emembered    something:    they 

tall,  creai  marguerite,  native  to  the 

i    the   Hebrides,    is   known    to    I 
.ders  as  the  M 


Pharais 

knew  not  what,  save  that  the  tragic  memory 
was  linked  with  reminiscence  of  a  valley  of 
moonflowers  ?een  in  a  dark  twilight.  Wa-  it 
all  a  dream,  coincident  in  their  minds?  Or 
had  life  once  before,  in  r-ome  unremembered 
state,  wrought  tragic  issues  for  them  by  a 
valley  of  white  flowers  seen  in  the  darkri' 
with  a  deeper  darkness  around,  a  veiled 
above,  and  the  hoarse,  confused  prophesying 
of  the  sea  beyond  ? 

As   thc_  >d,   the   moon — about  an  hour 

ri.~en — glimmered  through  the  veil  of  cloud. 
As  with  a  hand,  the  rift  was  slowly  made;  but 
though  the  light  was  now  clearly  visible,  it 
still  gleamed  through  filmy  shrouds  of  vapour. 
There  was  no  shape,  no  central  luminous  spot 
even :  only  a  diffused  ?heen  which  spread  for 
a  great  span  northward  and  southward,  though 
it  illumed  nothing  beneath  save  the  long 
sloping  hollow  filled  with  moonflowers.  The 
blooms  rose  aim'  »t  to  the  knees  of  the  two 
silent  and  trembling  figures.  For  some  in- 
scrutable reason,  the  advance  of  light  had  not 
brought  any  comfort  to  either:  rather,  their 
vague  terror  increased  almost  unendurably. 

The  sea  called  below.    Lora  shuddered,  and 
drew  back  a  step  or  two. 

A  long,   wavering,  greenish  light  appeared 
high  above  the  south-west.    A  heet-light- 

95 


Pharais 

ning  fled  shudderingly  northward,  it  lapsed 
into  ashen  tremors  before  it  was  swallowed  up 
of  the  darkness,  as  a  wounded  sea-bird  in  the 
deep. 

In  that  brief  gleam,  Alastair  turned  and 
looked  into  Lora's  eyes. 

She  moved  to  his  side  again,  and  once  more 
took  his  hand.  Then,  slowly,  and  still  without 
word  one  to  the  other,  they  moved  downward 
through  the  hollow. 

There  was  not  a  sound  about  them  save  the 
susurrus  of  their  feet  going  through  the  moon- 
flowers.  From  the  glen  alone  came  any  break 
in  the  inland  stillness,  the  noise  of  water  run- 
ning swiftly  from  ledge  to  ledge.  In  the  dark- 
ness where  the  sea  was,  there  broke  the 
fluctuating  moan  and  boom  of  ocean.  From 
far  across  the  wave  came  a  thin,  forlorn  sound 
that  was  the  crying  of  the  wind. 

Minute  by  minute,  as  they  waded  through 
that  death-white  wilderness,  the  moon  wove 
the  cloud-shroud  into  thinner  veils,  till  at  last, 
as  the  two  figures  emerged  upon  the  shore  by 
the  side  of  a  precipitous  scaur,  they  were  of  a 
filmy  gossamer  that  no  longer  obscured  the 
golden-yellow  globe  that  wheeled  solemnly 
through  the  appalling  upper  solitudes  of  the 
night. 

The  tide,  at  the  last  reach  of  the  ebb  for 

96 


Pharais 

nearly  an  hour  past,  was  now  on  the  flood: 
though  the  first  indeterminate  babble  of  re- 
turning waters  was  scarce  different  from  the 
lapsing  ebb-music  in  aught  save  a  gurgling 
swiftly  repetitive  undertone. 

The  scaur  by  whose  side  they  stood  was  hol- 
low, and  was  known  as  the  Cave  of  the  Sea- 
Woman.  It  could  be  reached  dry-shod,  or 
nearly  so,  only  at  low-water,  and  even  then 
only  during  calm,  or  when  the  wind  did  not 
blow  from  the  south  or  west.  For  years  be- 
yond record  it  had  been  almost  unvisited,  for 
the  cavern  was  a  place  of  deadly  peril  except 
just  before  and  after  the  extreme  ebb.  But 
after  the  death  of  two  of  his  sons — one  in  the 
effort  to  swim  outward  against  the  inrush  of 
the  tide ;  the  other  by  falling,  or  being  swept 
backward  to  the  deep  chasm  that  lay  at  the 
far  end  of  the  cave — old  Macrae,  of  Ardfeulan 
Farm  near  by,  had  caused  rude  steps  to  be  cut 
in  the  funnel-like  hollow  rising  sheer  up  from 
the  sloping  ledge  that  lipped  the  chasm  and 
reached  the  summit  of  the  scaur. 

The  smell  of  the  brine  from  the  dripping 
boulders  smote  shrewdly  upon  Alastair  and 
Lora  as  they  stood  at  the  weedy  mouth  of  the 
cavern.  Then  for  the  first  time  that  night  they 
turned  their  backs  upon  the  sea,  and  moved 
slowly  across  the  long,  flat  slabs  of  rock. 

97 


Pharais 

It  was  not  dark  at  the  entrance  to  the  Cavern 
of  the  Sea-Woman,  for  the  moonlight  moved 
within  it  as  the  hand  of  a  blind  man  groping 
blankly  in  an  unfamiliar  place.  The  arch  of 
the  rock  was  clear,  and  even  the  frondage  of 
fern  and  sea-plants  suspended  from  its  lower 
curve;  also,  beneath,  a  mass  of  mossed  crag, 
just  beyond  the  highest  reach  of  the  tides. 
Among  this  dark  crag-vegetation  grew  strange 
plants ;  but  none  stranger  or  so  rare  as  the  sea- 
grape,  or  mermaid's-fruit  of  the  islanders.  No 
one  on  Innisron  knew  its  proper  designation, 
and  it  had  become  known  at  all  as  the  sea- 
grape  only  because  some  student  of  rare  things 
discovered  and  wrote  about  it  under  that  name, 
as  perhaps  the  culminating  treasure-trove  of 
the  botanist  in  the  Scottish  West.  It  is  a  plant 
which  clings  as  a  tendril,  choosing  only  the 
summit  of  high  rocks  or  boulders  in  some 
sunless  place  where  it  can  breathe  the  ooze 
from  dead  or  dying  sea-weed,  and  can  feel  the 
salt  air  reach  it  with  a  chilly  touch.  It  lies  low, 
with  its  thin,  moist,  ash-grey  stems ;  its  round, 
pale-green,  transparent  leaves  faintly  spotted 
with  livid  blotches;  and  its  infrequent  clusters 
of  small,  juicy  berries  of  a  hue  of  dusky 
yellow. 

The  isle-folk  regard  it  with  awe.  Though 
the  fruit  is  poisonous,  and  a  deadly  draught 

98 


Pharais 

can  be  distilled  from  the  leaves,  a  few  berries 
would  not  suffice  to  kill.  To  eat  sparingly  of 
the  sea-grape  is  not  to  invite  death  necessarily, 
but  to  bring  about  a  stupor  so  deep  that  for  an 
hour  or  more  no  familiar  sound  can  reach  the 
ear,  no  ordinary  shock  vibrate  along  the  nerves, 
no  common  pain  affect  the  body.  If  the  eater 
of  the  mermaid's-fruit  be  left  undisturbed,  he 
will  not  stir  for  twelve  or  even  fifteen  hours, 
though  the  first  death-like  trance  does  not  pre- 
vail beyond  an  hour,  or  at  most  two:  while, 
if  forcibly  aroused,  he  is  so  weak  in  body  and 
so  dazed  in  mind  that  he  cannot  long  be  kept 
awake  without  peril  to  the  brain,  and  indeed 
to  life  itself. 

It  was  because  of  this  fruit  of  oblivion  that 
Alastair  and  Lora  had  sought  the  Cave  of  the 
Sea-Woman. 

They  had  feared  not  so  much  their  own 
instinctive  evasion  of  death  as  that,  in  the  final 
struggle,  they  might  not  go  down  into  the 
shadow  together. 

The  idea  that  the  Silence  should  come  upon 
them  unawares — that,  arms  about  each  other 
in  a  last  embrace,  the  wave  should  encroach 
upon  their  deep  unheeding  slumber — had  given 
them  a  strange  elation.  The  thought  was  Ala- 
stair's.  Though  he  was  not  a  native  of  Innis- 
ron,  he  had  often  visited  it  from  Dunvrechan 

99 


Pharais 

even  before  he  had  come  to  love  Lora,  and 
was  familiar  with  each  of  the  treacherous 
caves  and  all  the  desolate,  boulder-strewn,  un- 
inhabited south-western  side  of  the  island,  as 
well  as  with  everything  in  animate  or  inani- 
mate nature  which  was  to  be  found  therein. 
Not  only  had  he  often  heard  of  the  sea-grape 
which  grew  almost  inaccessibly  in  some  of  the 
caverns  on  the  western  side,  but  he  knew 
where  in  the  Cave  of  the  Sea-Woman  it  was 
to  be  obtained  with  little  difficulty. 

Letting  Lora's  hand  drop  gently  to  her  side, 
he  climbed  the  rough,  broken  ledges  to  the 
right,  and  swiftly  returned  holding  in  his  hand 
a  cluster  of  limp  leaves  from  which  hung 
snakily  several  stems  of  the  dusky-yellow  fruit. 

Lora  looked  at  the  berries  curiously,  and  yet 
with  a  strange  indifference.  With  that  awful 
menacing  sound  of  the  sea  beyond,  with  that 
more  awful  murmur  of  dread  in  her  heart, 
with  that  rising  tide  of  death  all  about  them, 
it  mattered  little  to  her  that  Alastair  laid  such 
stress  on  those  small,  poisonous  things,  those 
petty  messengers  of  a  mere  oblivion  of  the 
senses. 

Just  beyond  where  they  stood,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  those  long,  flat,  inward-sloping 
ledges  which  formed  the  floor  of  the  cavern 
till  the  abrupt  ending  over  the  dark  chasm  at 

ioo 


Pharais 

the  extreme  end,  was  a  bed  of  soft  white  sand, 
shelving  from  one  of  the  ledges  past  and  un- 
derneath another,  and  then  among  rocks  cov- 
ered with  bladder-wrack  and  adder's-tongues 
and  other  sea-weed,  with  tangled  masses  of  the 
long,  trailing  dead-man's-hair. 

Still  without  speech,  here  Alastair  and  Lora 
lay  down,  side  by  side. 

There  is  an  ebb  in  the  tide  of  human  hope 
that  must  reach  a  limit.  When  this  limit  is 
attained  there  is  too  great  weariness  for  any 
further  revolt,  for  any  protest,  for  anything 
but  dull  acquiescence. 

Slowly  Alastair  stripped  a  few  of  the  dusky 
berries  from  the  plant  and  held  them  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  to  Lora. 

Taking  them,  she  leaned  forward,  looking 
intently  upon  his  face,  but  failing  to  see  into 
his  eyes,  because  of  a  deeper  shadow  therein 
than  that  which  environed  them. 

"  Alastair,"  she  whispered. 

He  made  no  answer;  but  wearily  raised  his 
hand  to  his  mouth,  and  with  his  tongue 
crushed  against  his  palate  the  acrid  juice  of 
the  sea-grapes. 

"  O  Alastair !  speak  to  me !  speak  to  me !  " 

He  turned  slowly.  Then  suddenly  he  put 
out  his  arms,  and  gathered  her  to  his  breast. 

"  My  beautiful  gloom — Lora — my  Rest — my 

IOI 


Pharais 

Joy — O  you  who  are  my  Pharais — all  the 
Pharais  I  care  for  now  or  dream  of — if  there 
be  indeed  a  pitiful  God,  He  will  have  mercy 
upon  us.  If  we  do  wrongs  we  sin  believing 
that  we  are  doing  the  right,  the  sole  right 
thing.  But  sweet  it  is — O  Lora,  sweet  and 
dear  at  the  last,  after  all  our  dark  bewildered 
pain,  to  be  here  and  know  that  all  is  over  now, 
and  that  we  two  go  into  the  Silence  together: 
and  if  there  be  any  waking,  that  together  we 
shall  wake.  Mo  ghraidh,  mo  muirnean,  my 
dear  one,  what  peace  there  is  for  you  and  me 
that  I  die  thus:  free  from  that  crushing, 
crushing  pain  and  darkness  that  has  filled  my 
brain." 

"  Alastair !  O  my  dear  love — dearest — 
shall  we — shall  we  meet  again  after  this 
dreadful  night?  Shall  there  be  any  day  for 
us?  I  cannot  die — oh,  I  cannot  die  in  this 
awful  darkness  .  .  .  thus  .  .  .  We  are  both  so 
young  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  ." 

She  ceased  abruptly. 

A  low  splashing  sound,  with  long-drawn 
suffocating  surge  and  susurrus,  told  that  the 
sea  had  begun  to  creep  forward  with  stealthy 
swiftness. 

It  was  not  the  menace  of  the  tide,  however, 
that  froze  the  words  upon  her  lips. 

Alastair  had  begun  to  croon,  in  a  drowsy, 

1 02 


Pharais 

yet  strained,  uncertain  voice,  a  snatch  of 
fisher-lore. 

"  Alastair !  Alastair !  Alastair !  " 

He  gave  a  low  laugh,  as  he  turned  on  his 
side,  and  with  wandering  fingers  played  idly 
with  the  sand. 

"  Alastair !  .  .  .  my  husband !  .  .  .  Beloved 
.  .  .  Alastair !  .  .  .  Oh,  say  farewell  to  me  at 
the  least.  .  .  .  Do  not  turn  from  me ! '! 

"  It  called — called — called :  and  she  cried 
to  me,  Come,  my  Beloved :  and  then  I  knew 
Lora  was  dead.  Why  do  you  laugh  at  me? 
She  is  dead,  I  tell  you:  dead,  dead,  dead! 
She,  my  beautiful  Lora — my  dream — my  joy 
— she  who  to  me  was  Pharais  itself :  she  is 
dead! " 

In  the  grip  of  supreme  woe,  a  woman  has  a 
heroism  of  abnegation  beyond  all  words  to 
tell  of  it. 

Her  grief  rose  within  Lora  as  a  phantom, 
and  chilled  her  to  the  very  heart  and  to  the 
very  brain.  But  with  a  great  effort  she 
stirred,  leaned  over  and  plucked  some  of  the 
fatal  fruit  and  swallowed  it :  for  she  had 
crushed  in  her  hand  the  berries  he  had  given 
her. 

Then,  having  risen,  with  deft  hands  she 
pulled  toward  her  some  long  strings  of  dead- 
man's-hair    and    rope-weed ;   and,    with   those 

103 


Pharais 

which  were  firmly  affixed  to  rocks  or  heavy 
stones,  she  wove  a  girdle  about  the  waist  of 
Alastair,  and  so  round  her  own. 

She  could  scarce  see  to  finish  her  task,  for 
the  moon  had  passed  upward  into  the  denser 
cloud,  and  the  faintly  luminous  veils  of  vapour 
beneath  it  were  now  scarce  distinguishable 
from  the  obscurity  all  around. 

The  insistent  wash  of  the  tide  was  coming 
steadily  nearer.  She  could  feel  the  cold  breath 
of  its  moving  lip. 

Absolute  darkness  prevailed ;  while,  with 
shaking  hands,  having  unloosed  her  long,  black 
hair,  she  tied  it  firmly  in  two  places  with  the 
curly  tangle  of  him  whom  she  loved  so  passing 
well  in  death  as  in  life. 

Not  a  gleam  fell  from  the  veiled  moon.  Not 
a  thing  was  visible  save  a  faint  phosphorescent 
line  that  moved  slowly  inward.  Lora  could 
not  see  Alastair's  face,  not  even  his  body,  not 
even  the  two  shaking  hands  she  held  over  him 
while  she  prayed  inaudibly,  and  with  a  suffo- 
cating, bewildering  pain  at  her  heart,  at  her 
lungs,  in  her  head. 

No  sound  came  from  the  isle.  The  noise  of 
the  falling  stream  in  the  glen  was  merged  in 
the  confused  clamour  of  the  tide-race.  Shore- 
ward, there  was  that  awful  tidal  whisper. 
Seaward,  the  march  of  wave  after  wave,  of 

104 


Pharais 

billow  after  billow,  in  vast  processional  array ; 
squadron  after  squadron,  battalion  after  bat- 
talion, of  the  innumerable  army  of  the  deep: 
and  among  them  all,  over  them  all,  beneath 
them  all,  a  Voice,  loud,  reverberant,  menacing, 
awful  as  brooding  thunder,  terrible  as  the 
quaking  of  the  dry  land  when  the  hills  o'er- 
topple  the  cities  of  the  plain:  a  Voice  as  of 
the  majesty  of  Death,  swelling  through  the 
night  with  all  the  eternal  pain,  the  forlorn 
travail,  the  incommunicable  ache  of  all  the 
weary,  weary  World. 

Then,  ere  all  remembrance  died  for  her, 
Lora  knew  that  Alastair  slept  and  was  at 
peace. 

She  stole  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  held 
him  close,  but  was  too  weak  now  to  lean  over 
and  kiss  those  white  lips,  parted  as  a  child's 
in  dreamless  slumber. 

It  was  her  last  pain:  the  last  unavailing 
bitterness  of  woman's  woe. 

Thereafter  she  lay  still,  vaguely  hearkening 
the  tide  run  up  the  deep  channel  beyond  the 
little  isle  of  sand,  already  damp  with  the  under- 
ooze. 

She  listened  to  the  slipping  of  the  water 
along  the  ledges.  A  wave  came  out  of  the 
darkness  and  stalked  through  the  gloom  as  a 
wild  beast  to  its  lair.     Ledge  over  ledge  she 

105 


P  harms 

heard  it  swiftly  move :  then  suddenly  there  was 
a  blank  ...  a  hoarse  muffled  noise  .  .  .  the 
hollow  reverberation  of  the  billow  as  it  fell 
heavily  into  the  black  unfathomed  gulf  wherein 
at  the  flood  was  swept  all  that  drifted  into 
the  cave. 

A  windy  sigh  arose  in  the  cavern.  The  tide 
moved  upward,  feeling  along  the  walls  with 
stealthy,  groping  hands.  A  faint  phosphores- 
cence appeared  momently,  now  here,  now 
there. 

The  second  channel,  to  the  left,  suddenly 
brimmed.  The  water  spilled  over  upon  the 
sandy  tract  beyond.  Then  a  long  rolling  wave 
raced  inward,  leaped  along  one  of  its  ledges, 
poised  a  moment,  and,  breaking  into  a  seething 
foam  in  its  fall,  tore  this  away  and  that  the 
weedy  bonds  which  bound  the  sleepers. 

Beyond,  in  the  darkness,  the  loud  moan, 
the  deep,  monotonous  boom  of  the  sea  filled 
the  whole  vast  void  of  the  night. 


V 


The  loud  and  terrifying  violence  of  the 
sea  throughout  that  day;  .the  oppressive 
gloom  of  that  night;  the  weight  of  undis- 
charged electricity  which  everywhere  brooded ; 

106 


Pharais 

all  made  sleep  impossible  for  Ealasaid  Mac- 
Aodh. 

So  ill  was  she  when  evening  set  in,  that  she 
had  moved  her  things  from  the  bed  in  the 
second  of  the  two  rooms  of  which  the  sheiling 
consisted,  so  as  to  sleep  in  the  box-bed  in  the 
larger,  within  sight  and  feel  of  the  fire-glow. 

She  had  not  slept  there  since  her  husband 
died.  Perhaps  this  was  because  that,  even 
after  the  lapse  of  years,  she  could  not  endure 
the  solitudes  of  memory.  They  had  been 
lovers  in  their  youth,  she  and  her  Hebridean : 
they  had  been  lovers  during  their  brief  mar- 
ried life,  ere  he,  after  the  too  frequent  wont  of 
the  islesmen,  found  death  in  the  wave  where- 
in he  sought  the  means  of  life:  and  when  his 
drifted  body  had  been  recovered,  and  laid  in 
the  island  soil,  she  had  remained  his  lover  still. 
Doubtless,  she  thought  of  him  even  yet  with 
his  yellow  hair  and  laughing  eyes ;  perhaps  of 
herself,  too,  as  lithe  of  limb  and  with  soft, 
fair  skin  as  unwrinkled  and  hair  as  brown  and 
supple  as  when  he  had  first  caused  the  trouble 
of  a  new  and  strange  tide  in  the  calm  waters 
of  her  girl's  heart. 

To  sleep  in  the  bed  where  she  had  lain  by 
his  side,  where  a  child  had  been  born  to  her 
and  had  died  just  as  with  glad  pain  she  had 
recognised   in   the   little  one  the  eyes  of  its 

107 


Pharais 

father,  may  have  seemed  to  her  a  cross  of  suf- 
fering which  she  was  unable  to  take  up  and 
bear. 

Or,  it  may  be,  there  lurked  darkly  in  her 
mind  the  ancient  secret  Celtic  dread  of  sleep- 
ing in  the  bed  where  any  of  one's  own  blood- 
kin  has  died :  the  dread  of  the  whisper  that  is 
on  the  pillow  in  the  dark  hours,  of  the  hand 
that  gropes  along  the  coverlet,  of  the  chill 
breath  that  comes  without  cause  and  stirs  the 
hair  as  it  falls  suddenly  upon  the  cheek  of  the 
awakened  sleeper. 

On  this  night,  however,  she  dreaded  not 
only  her  own  weakness,  but  the  dark.  Vaguely, 
she  wondered  how  she  had  for  so  long  a  time 
slept  away  from  the  comforting  light  and 
warmth  of  her  peat-fire. 

She  was  so  old,  so  weary,  she  thought  piti- 
fully. Would  Duncan  be  sure  to  know  her 
again  ?  Why  was  she  kept  so  long  there,  wait- 
ing for  the  summons  that  never  came?  Had 
God  forgotten  her  ?  No  kin  had  she :  not  one 
to  claim  her  body  for  the  place  of  sleep  when 
her  dark  hour  came.  Useless  were  her  days 
to  all:  to  herself,  each  day  a  rising  sorrow; 
each  night  a  setting  grief. 

Yet  that  infinite  patience  of  the  poor  was 
hers,  that  poignant  pathos  of  womanhood  in 
childless  and  husbandless  old  age,  which  to 

108 


Pharais 

the  very  end  endures — till  the  last  thread  has 
been  used  in  the  weaving  of  the  Crown  of 
Sorrow. 

Beautiful  this  austere  Diadem  worn  by  aged 
and  lonely  women :  sweet-eyed  bearers  of 
crowns  among  the  myriad  procession  of  the 
weary  poor  of  all  the  world,  all  going  glorious- 
ly apparelled  and  wreathed  with  green  garlands 
which  fade  not  in  the  sight  of  Him  who  lead- 
eth  His  feeble  folk  to  kingship  and  honour. 

For  a  brief  while  she  lay  brooding,  with  dull 
old  eyes  fixed  upon  the  red  heart  of  the  peats. 
Then  the  gaze  withdrew  slowly,  and  the  lids 
closed ;  as  though  a  bird,  flying  softly  through 
the  twilight,  had  passed  beneath  the  low-hung 
leaves  over  its  nest. 

She  could  not  have  been  long  asleep,  for  the 
glow  was  still  ruddy  upon  the  floor,  when  she 
was  startled  by  a  sudden  barking  and  whining. 
She  sat  up,  listening  intently.  She  could  hear 
no  step,  no  voice.  The  whining  terrified  her. 
If  the  noise  were  that  of  a  dog  at  all,  and 
not  of  Luath  or  some  other  phantom  hound, 
whose  dog  was  it,  and  why  its  sudden  appear- 
ance at  her  door  at  that  hour  of  night — its 
eager,  unceasing  clamour? 

But  when,  with  louder  and  louder  barks  and 
an  impatient  scraping,  the  unwelcome  visitor 
showed  he  was  not  to  be  denied,  she  rose,  put 

109 


Pharais 

on  her  things,  and  then,  having  wrapped  a 
shawl  about  her  head  and  lit  a  lantern  which 
she  lifted  from  a  hook,  opened  the  door. 

For  a  moment,  she  thought  that  nothing  was 
there.  Then  her  ears  caught  the  sound  of 
panting  breath,  and  something  wet  and  warm 
touched  her  suspended  left  hand. 

With  timid,  yet  caressing  voice,  she  lured  the 
dog  across  the  threshold.  The  moment  she 
could  see  clearly,  she  recognised  him  as 
Ghaoth,  the  white-breasted,  tawny-haired,  am- 
ber-eyed collie  that  belonged  to  Alastair  Mac- 
leod. 

The  dog  would  not  bide.  His  whining  never 
ceased,  save  when  it  was  interrupted  by  loud, 
eager  barks.  To  and  fro  he  ran,  and  at  last 
sprang  out  into  the  night  again,  only  to  return 
a  few  moments  later  in  a  state  of  excitement 
bordering  on  frenzy. 

"  Some  evil  must  have  happened  to  Alastair 
Macleod,"  Ealasaid  muttered,  as  after  a  brief 
hesitation  she  took  the  lantern  and  followed 
Ghaoth. 

To  her  dismay,  the  dog  tried  to  lead  her 
toward  the  hollow  of  the  moonflowers.  Could 
Alastair  possibly  be  .there,  or  on  the  shore  be- 
yond? Why,  if  he  were  down  there,  lying 
helpless,  the  tide  would  be  upon  him  shortly, 
and  then  his  doom  would  be  certain.     Again, 

no 


Pharais 

of  what  avail  was  she,  so  old  and  frail,  and 
now  with  some  new  weakness  upon  her?  She 
feared  she  had  not  the  strength  to  move  down- 
ward in  the  dark  through  that  dense  jungle  of 
white  blooms :  still  less  to  climb  homeward 
again.  But  while  she  pondered,  she  saw  that 
Ghaoth  leaped  no  more  in  the  direction  of  the 
valley,  but  along  the  grassy  ridge  which  led  to 
the  summit  of  Craig-Geal,  so  perilous  by  night 
because  of  the  sloping,  precipitous  hole  which 
gave  entrance  to  the  funnel-like  passage  issuing 
from  the  Cave  of  the  Sea-Woman. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  as  it  flashed  upon  her  that 
Alastair  had  fallen,  or  been  hemmed  in  in  the 
cavern  by  the  tide,  "  God  help  him  if  he  is 
there!" 

With  panting  breath  she  hurried  along  the 
ridge,  heedless  now  of  Ghaoth,  who  had  sud- 
denly darted  off  to  the  left  and  disappeared 
among  the  moonflowers.  She  had  not  gone 
far,  however,  before  she  stopped.  What  use 
to  hurry  onward,  if  all  she  could  do  was  to 
shout  down  into  the  darkness — a  cry  that 
would  likely  never  be  heard,  and  if  heard 
would  be  of  no  avail  to  the  hearer? 

No  sooner  did  she  realise  the  uselessness  of 
her  errand  than  she  turned,  and,  with  shaking 
limbs  and  labouring  breath,  made  her  way 
along  a  sheep-path  which  led  to  the  opposite 

III 


P  harms 

brae  of  Craig-Ruaidh,  where  Angus  Macrae 
and  his  son  Ranald  lived. 

So  exhausted  was  the  old  woman  by  the  time 
she  had  reached  the  farm  and  aroused  the  in- 
mates, that  two  or  three  minutes  passed  before 
she  could  explain. 

Ranald  Macrae  saw  at  once  that  one  of  two 
things  had  happened :  either  that  Alastair  had 
wandered  to  the  cave  in  his  madness,  and  there, 
ignorant  or  oblivious  of  the  steps  cut  in  the 
hollow  columnar  passage  at  the  far  end,  been 
cut  off  by  the  sea ;  or  else  that  he  had  wittingly 
made  his  way  there,  with  intent  to  drown  him- 
self in  the  Kelpie's  Pool — an  abyss  that  never 
gave  back  what  it  swallowed. 

It  was  during  this  hurried  explanation  to  his 
father  that  Ealasaid  learned  for  the  first  time 
the  truth  of  what  had  reached  her  as  a  vague 
rumour  in  the  mouth  of  a  herd-boy.  Eager  as 
she  was  to  be  of  help,  she  was  now  too  weak 
to  accompany  the  men,  even  if  it  were  possible 
for  her  to  keep  pace  with  them,  which  it  was 
not,  as  they  had  started  off  at  a  run. 

She  knew  that  old  Macrae's  advice  was 
right :  that  she  could  best  help  by  going  home 
at  once,  and  making  preparation  to  receive 
Alastair  if  he  were  still  alive.  There  was  no 
room  for  him  at  the  farm,  where  Ranald's  wife 
had  given  birth  to  a  child  two  days  before.    So 

112 


Pharais 

with  little  Pol,  the  herd-boy,  she  set  out  once 
more,  leaning  often  upon  the  lad's  shoulder ; 
and  wondering  if,  after  all,  God  were  going  to 
let  her  be  of  some  service  before  he  led  her 
through  the  blind  way  till  her  hand  should  slip 
into  that  of  her  husband.  As  she  went,  she 
muttered  to  herself  part  of  a  rune  now  almost 
lost  among  the  people,  an  ancient  sian — that 
part  of  the  Tuaithcal,  beginning  Clogaid  na 
salainte  mu  d'cheann: 

"The  helmet  of  Salvation  about  your  head, 
The  ring  of  the  Covenant  about  your  neck, 
The  priest's  breastplate  about  your  breast; 
If  it  be  rout  on  the  rear, 
The  shoes  of  the  Virgin  to  take  you  swiftly  away. 

Charm  of  the  Three  in  one  on  you 

From  crown  of  head  to  sole  of  foot, 

And  the  charm  of  the  pater  of  the  seven  paters 

A-going  anti-sunwise  and  sunwise,  sunwise  and 

anti-sunwise, 
To  protect  you  from  behind, 
From  wound  and  from  slaying, 
Till  the  hour  and  time  of  your  death." 

Before  they  left  the  farmstead,  the  Marcraes 
had  provided  themselves  with  lanterns,  a  long 
rope,  and  a  pine  torch  dipped  in  tar. 

As  they  neared  the  summit  of  Craig-Geal, 
they  could  hear  the  frenzied  barking  of  Ghaoth 

"3 


Pharais 

in  the  darkness  down  by  the  sea — loud  when 
caught  on  an  eddy  of  wind  and  borne  upward, 
scarce  audible  when  overborne  by  the  moan 
and  boom  and  ever  recurrent  breaking  surge  of 
the  advancing  tide. 

At  the  dark  circular  exit  of  the  cavern,  they 
waved  lanterns  and  shouted  themselves  hoarse : 
but  without  seeing  aught,  or  winning  response. 

Angus  Macrae  silently  drew  back,  rose,  and 
lit  the  pine  torch.  Flaring  abruptly  into  the 
dark  before  a  gust  of  wind,  it  was  like  a  blood- 
red  wound  in  the  flank  of  some  vast  black 
creature  of  night. 

Having  fastened  the  torch  to  the  rope,  he 
swung  it  far  down  the  narrow  funnel,  up 
which  came  the  smell  of  wrack  and  sea-damp 
and  an  obscure,  muffled  sound. 

Still  there  was  nothing  visible.  No  shout 
followed  the  sudden  glare. 

The  old  man  stood  silent,  craning  forward 
with  brooding  eyes ;  for  now  he  was  thinking 
of  the  two  sons  he  had  lost.  With  a  shudder, 
he  moved  slowly  back  and  turned  to  Ranald. 

"  Will  you  go  down  ?  " 

"  Ay,  father,  that  I  will :  if  you  will  breathe 
the  holy  word  before  me  and  after  me.  The 
kelpie  .  .  .  the  Sea-Woman  .  .  .  won't  catch 
me,  for  I  am  sure  of  hand  and  foot." 

"  So  your  brother  Seumas  thought." 

114 


Pharais 

Ranald  hesitated,  looked  at  the  cave-mouth, 
then  at  his  father. 

"  Is  it  true  Seumas  died  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  It  is  true.  The  tide  hemmed  him  in,  and 
a  heavy  sea  foamed  at  the  mouth  of  the  cavern. 
There  was  no  chance  but  to  gain  some  ledge 
high  above  the  Sea-Woman's  Pool.  He  did 
gain  a  hold  on  a  ledge,  for  long  afterward  we 
found  his  knife  on  it.  Then  the  accursed  kel- 
pie rose  out  of  her  lair  and  took  him  by  the 
legs,  and  pulled  him  down,  and  tore  him,  and 
broke  the  bones  of  him — my  son,  my  son,  my 
beautiful  Seumas !  " 

As  the  old  man  spoke,  his  voice  had  grown 
louder,  his  tone  more  intense;  and  at  the  last 
the  memory  of  his  loss  so  wrought  upon  him 
that,  with  a  sudden  cry,  he  dashed  forward  and 
whirled  one  of  the  lanterns  into  the  dark,  echo- 
ing chasm. 

"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,"  he  cried,  as  his  son 
tried  to  withhold  him.  "  If  she  must  have  one 
of  us  again,  let  it  be  me !  Let  go,  boy !  You 
have  your  wife  and  child:  and  I  am  old,  and 
have  lost  Seumas  and  Andras  and  the  mother 
who  bore  them !  " 

Without  a  word,  Ranald  desisted.  The  old 
man  went  on  his  knees,  crawled  forward,  and 
pulled  up  the  flaming  torch.  Then,  having  fas- 
tened the  rope  round  his  waist  and  secured  a 

115 


Pharais 

lantern  to  his  belt,  he  slipped  over  the  edge 
and  began  the  descent,  cautiously  feeling  his 
way  with  his  feet  as  he  went. 

As  he  reached  further  and  further  into  the 
darkness,  he  wondered  why  he  heard  no  more 
the  barking  of  Ghaoth.  A  grim  thought  came 
into  his  mind :  the  dog  had  been  caught  by  the 
Sea-Woman,  and  was  even  now  drifting  round 
and  round  in  her  pool,  strangled,  with  glazed, 
protruding  eyes. 

At  last,  both  sight  and  sound  told  him  that 
he  was  nearly  over  the  abyss — sight  and  sound, 
and  his  careful  counting  of  the  steps  in  his 
descent. 

The  tidal  wash,  the  heavy  lapse  and  then 
heavier  resurge,  with  the  rush  and  cataract- 
roar  of  the  seas  as  they  fell  far  down  into  the 
chasm,  assailed  his  ears  continuously.  Peering 
down,  he  could  see  the  foam  upon  the  flood, 
as  it  swept  ravening  round  the  cave  and  then 
fell  headlong  into  the  abyss,  above  which  was 
a  misty  pulsating  whiteness,  the  send  and  spray 
of  tons  of  whirled  water. 

There  was  almost  no  need  to  descend 
further,  he  thought.  The  strongest  swimmer, 
if  caught  in  that  inrush,  would  be  swept  irre- 
sistibly into  the  horrible  caldron  where  the 
Sea-Woman  brewed  her  spells  of  storm  and 
disaster. 

116      . 


Pharais 

There  was  but  one  chance  for  Alastair ;  if,  in 
truth,  he  were  in  the  cave  at  all  and  still  alive. 
A  little  way  below  where  the  islesman  stood, 
there  were  three  or  four  broad  ledges  of  which 
even  the  lowest  would  still  be  unswept  by  the 
sea.  He  dreaded  to  descend ;  for  it  was  on  the 
first  of  those  ledges  that  his  son,  Seumas,  had 
been  dragged,  screaming,  into  the  abyss.  With 
a  muttered  prayer,  however — a  prayer  that  was 
half  an  incantation — he  once  more  slowly 
crawled  downward. 

When  he  came  to  the  third  ledge,  he  stopped, 
crouched,  and  peered  downward  and  forward. 

For  a  moment  his  brain  swung. 

What  was  it  that  he  saw?  What  fantasy 
was  this?  What  horrible  caprice  of  his  eyes? 
Had  Ghaoth  slain  the  kelpie,  and  was  he  now 
perishing  there  with  his  teeth  fixed  in  the  neck 
of  the  Sea- Woman  ? 

For  Ghaoth,  and  no  other,  was  the  dog  that 
crouched  on  the  lowest  ledge ;  and  a  woman 
it  was  who  lay  beside  him,  upheld  at  the  neck 
by  his  strong  teeth. 

He  saw  the  gleam  in  the  dog's  eyes,  fixed 
upon  him  unwaveringly  He  understood  their 
appeal.  Slowly  he  unfastened  and  raised  his 
lantern. 

When  he  recognised  Lora,  he  knew  intui- 
tively what  had  happened.  With  uplifted  arm, 

117 


Pharais 

he  let  the  light  fall  all  around — above  weedy, 
sea-swept  boulders,  and  the  dark,  inward-mov- 
ing flood,  broken  here  and  there  into  a  seethe 
of  foam  that  shone  ghastly  white  in  the  lan- 
tern-glow. 

There  was  no  sign  of  Alastair. 

It  was  clear  he  was  either  already  swept 
into  the  chasm,  or  had  been  sucked  seaward  in 
the  undertow. 

With  utmost  care,  Macrae  stepped  on  to  the 
lowest  ledge. 

Stooping,  he  looked  intently  in  Lora's  white 
face.  Then  he  put  his  hand  to  her  heart.  He 
fancied  he  felt  it  beat,  but  could  not  be  sure. 
Drawing  a  flask  from  his  pocket,  he  poured 
some  of  the  contents  down  her  throat,  then 
upon  her  temples  and  breast,  with  rough  hand 
laving  the  spirit  across  the  bosom,  which,  cold 
as  it  was,  had  not  the  unmistakable  chill  of 
death.  A  new  strength  came  to  the  old  man. 
He  had  lost  all  fear  now,  and  had  no  other 
thought  but  to  save  this  poor  creature  who  had 
already  looked  on  the  face  of  Death,  and  nigh 
perished  with  the  horror  of  it. 

Taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  was  swiftly  se- 
curing her  to  his  body  by  the  rope,  when  he 
was  startled  to  see  Ghaoth,  who  had  at  once 
let  go  his  hold,  leap  into  the  surge  and  swim 
seaward. 

118 


Pharais 

The  dog  went  to  its  doom,  he  knew,  in  a 
vain  quest  for  Alastair.  With  a  moment's  sigh, 
he  turned  to  what  he  had  to  do. 

An  arduous  and  perilous  climb  it  was  ere  the 
old  islesman  at  last  neared  the  summit,  and 
felt  Ranald  grasp  him  by  the  shoulder  and  help 
him  and  his  burden  over  the  edge. 

He  would  have  swooned  from  the  long  strain 
upon  him,  had  not  his  son  hastily  put  the  flask 
of  whisky  to  his  mouth  and  imperatively  bid 
him  drink. 

As  soon  as  he  could  breathe  freely  once 
more,  he  recounted  what  had  happened.  The 
young  man  wanted  to  go  down  at  once  into  the 
cave  and  seek  for  Alastair,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  still  be  swimming  in  the  open,  or  be 
somewhere  afloat,  and  that  Ghaoth  might 
reach  him  and  bring  him  to  the  spot  where 
the  dog  had  guarded  Lora — almost  from  the 
moment,  though  of  course  neither  Macrae  nor 
his  son  knew  aught  of  this,  when  the  first 
ledge-sweeping  wave  broke  upon  the  sleepers 
and  reft  asunder  their  impotent  weedy  bonds. 

But  of  this  project  Angus  Macrae  would 
hear  nothing  further.  Was  his  son  mad,  he 
asked  him,  to  believe  that  Alastair  could  still 
be  alive,  since,  he  was  visible  nowhere? 

'  No,"  he  added,  "  he  is  in  the  deep  sea  by 
now,  or   lies  gripped  by  the   Woman  in  her 

119 


Pharais 

hole.  But,  Ranald,  if  to  search  for  his  body 
you  are  so  fain,  you  can  go  down  later.  May- 
be you  will  find  the  dog,  though  I  think 
neither  you,  nor  I,  nor  any  one  else  will  ever 
see  dog  or  man  again.  Meanwhile,  take  up  this 
poor  soul  and  carry  her  to  Widow  Ealasaid's. 

"  She  is  big  with  child,"  whispered  the 
young  man,  as,  awe-struck,  he  wrapped  Lora 
in  his  warm  plaid  and  raised  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Ay :  God  have  pity  on  this  lost  ewe  and 
her  poor,  wee  lammie.  Be  careful,  Ranald, 
be  tender — ay,  as  tender  as  if  she  were  your 
own  Cairistine,  and  the  babe  that  is  now  mov- 
ing within  her  were  blood  of  your  blood  and 
bone  of  your  bone." 

In  silence,  and  as  swiftly  as  possible,  the 
two  men,  with  their  still  more  silent  burden, 
crossed  the  slopes  of  the  ridge  and  ascended 
the  grassy,  boulder-strewn  brae.  In  due  time, 
they  were  met  at  the  door  by  Ealasaid. 

With  a  low,  crooning  wail,  the  old  woman 
helped  to  lay  Lora  on  the  bed  in  the  inner 
room.  She  had  already  warmed  the  clothes, 
and  had  poured  boiling  water  in  a  tub,  with 
hot  flannels  for  swathing  All  island-women 
act  thus  on  any  hint  of  accident,  for  the  hun- 
ger of  the  sea  is  the  cause  of  nearly  every  dis- 
aster for  them  and  their  loved  ones.  Besides 
— had   not   Duncan   Ban   once  been  brought 

1 20 


Pharais 

home,  and  all  this  and  more  done  for  him, 
though  the  chill  upon  him  was  not  that  of  the 
sea  only? 

Suddenly  she  saw  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 

"  Quick,  quick,  Pol,"  she  cried :  "  take  a 
lantern  and  run  like  the  wind  across  to  the 
clachan,  and  tell  Mrs.  Mary  Maclean  that  she 
is  to  come  here  at  once,  for  Alastair  Macleod 
is  dead,  and  his  wife  is  lying  here  in  labour, 
and  that  the  last  pains  may  come  upon  her 
speedily." 

The  boy  hesitated  a  moment,  glanced  at  his 
grandfather,  and  then  fled  into  the  night,  heed- 
less of  any  lantern,  and  sure-footed  as  a  goat. 

Finding  that  he  could  be  of  no  use,  and  that 
Mrs.  MacAodh  wished  only  his  father  to  re- 
main, Ranald  Macrae  slipped  quietly  away: 
and  in  a  brief  while  had  reached  the  cave  en- 
trance, descended,  and  searched  vainly  for  any 
trace  of  either  Alastair  or  the  dog. 

To  Ealasaid's  unceasing  care  Lora  owed  her 
life.  The  old  woman  seemed  to  have  grown 
years  younger.  A  new  strength  was  in  her 
arm,  a  new  light  in  her  worn  eyes,  a  new  spirit 
in  her  frail  body.  With  deft  hands,  she 
rubbed  the  skin  aglow,  wrapped  warm  flan- 
nels about  the  limbs,  breathed  into  breast  and 
back,  soothed  the  convulsive  strainings  of  the 
sides  and  heavy  womb,   fed  the  unconscious 

121 


Pharais 

sufferer  with  sips  of  broth  and  warmed  spirit, 
and  often  the  while  kissed  the  poor  faintly 
quivering  lips.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her 
heart  swam  in  tears;  but  with  the  unnoticed 
heroism  of  women,  she  let  no  grief  overmaster 
her,  no  flagging  of  mind  or  body  usurp  her 
will. 

In  the  outer  room  Angus  Macrae  sat,  intent 
at  first  upon  the  keeping  up  of  the  fire  and 
the  fulfilment  of  Ealasaid's  divers  commands. 
Then,  nigh  an  hour  later,  when  through  the 
open  doorway  he  heard  a  strange  moaning 
from  the  inner  room,  he  sat  down  by  the  low, 
rude  table  and,  taking  the  Gaelic  Bible  which 
lay  there,  began  in  a  slow,  monotonous  voice 
to  read  from  the  page  which  caught  his  eye 
as  he  opened  the  book: 

"I  returned,  and  saw  under  the  sun,  that  the 
race  is  not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong, 
neither  yet  bread  to  the  wise,  nor  yet  riches  to 
men  of  understanding,  nor  yet  favour  to  men  of 
skill;  but  time  and  chance  happeneth  to  them 
all.  For  man  also  knoweth  not  his  time:  as  the 
fishes  that  are  taken  in  an  evil  net,  and  as  the 
birds  that  are  caught  in  the  snare,  even  so  are  the 
sons  of  men  snared  in  an  evil  time,  when  it  falleth 
suddenly  upon  them." 

As  he  read  steadfastly  onward  through  this 
moving  last  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  his  voice 

122 


Pharais 

rose,  and  took  a  rhythmic  chant,  and  filled  the 
room,  as  a  rising  wind  fills  a  valley  set  among 
the  hills. 

But  when  he  read : 

"As  thou  knowest  not  what  is  the  way  of  the 
wind,  nor  how  the  bones  do  grow  in  the  womb  of 
her  that  is  with  child;  even  so  thou  knowest  not 
the  work  of  God  who  doeth  all " 

he  stopped  abruptly,  for  he  heard  a  sound  at 
the  outer  door,  and  guessed,  even  before  he 
saw  her,  that  the  comer  was  Mrs.  Maclean. 

Angus  rose,  and  took  her  hand.  Then,  see- 
ing the  speechless  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  he  let 
go  his  hold  of  her,  and,  bowing  his  head,  did 
not  lift  up  his  eyes  again  till  Mary  had  entered 
the  inner  room. 

He  knew  that,  with  those  two  women  there, 
all  would  go  well  with  Lora,  if  it  were  or- 
dained that  she  was  to  live.  But  he  feared 
that  death  was  already  entered  in  at  the  door ; 
and  he  knew  not  what  passionate  sorrow 
might  come  upon  and  undo  those  who  minis- 
tered to  the  woman,  who  even  now  was  in 
those  pains  of  labour  that  ere  morn  should 
end  in  the  birth  of  a  child.  Long  he  sat 
brooding.  Then,  weary  of  his  vigil,  once 
more  he  began  to  read,  resuming  with  the 
verse  where  he  had  been  interrupted: 

123 


Pharais 

"Even  so,  thou  knowest  not  the  work  of  God 
who  doeth  all. 

"In  the  morning  sow  thy  seed,  and  in  the  evening 
withhold  not  thine  hand:  for  thou  knowest  not 
which  shall  prosper,  whether  this  or  that,  or  whether 
they  both  shall  be  alike  good." 

Looking  up,  he  saw  Ealasaid  standing  at  the 
door,  a  wonderful  light  on  her  old  face. 

"  It  lives,"  she  said  simply.  "  Mary  said 
that  the  child  would  certainly  be  born  dead ; 
but  it  lives.  She  says  now  it  has  the  shadow 
upon  it,  and  must  die  ere  long;  but  they  told 
me  that  my  own  little  blossom  was  strong,  and 
would  live :  .  .  .  and  even  as  they  were  wrong, 
wrong  also  may  Mary  Maclean  be." 

Hearing  a  call,  she  turned,  and  went  within. 

The  old  ilsesman  muttered  for  a  while,  with 
bent  head  and  closed  eyes.  Then  he  began  to 
read  again : 

"  Truly  the  light  is  sweet,  and  a  pleasant  thing 
it  is  for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun." 

"  Hush !  " 

It  was  Mary  who  spoke.  She  had  that  in 
her  face  which  made  him  rise. 

"  Hush,  Angus  Macrae.  Truly,  the  eyes 
are  the  delight  of  the  body,  but  this  is  not 
the  time  for  the  bitterness  of  that  saying. 
Never  for  this  child,  that  is  born  in  the  shadow 

124 


Pharais 

of  death,  and  can  itself  live  but  a  brief  while, 
shall  there  be  the  sweet  light  of  which  you 
speak,  nor  the  pleasantness  of  beholding  the 
sun,  nor  the  way  of  the  day  betwixt  rise  and 
set." 

"Is  the  child  blind?" 

"  Ay  .  .  .  blind  .  .  .  blind." 

"And  weakling?" 

"  Ay." 

"And  she?" 

"  God  hath  given  her  strength  to  endure." 

"  Does  she  know  all  that  has  happened?  " 

"  If  she  did,  she  would  be  with  Alastair. 
Her  mind  is  dazed.  She  is  as  one  distraught. 
My  friend,  read  no  more  to-night.  Go  home 
now,  and  God  be  with  you.  Bring  on  the  mor- 
row what  tidings  you  have." 

Soon  after  the  departure  of  the  old  man, 
a  great  stillness  fell  upon  the  house.  Lora 
slept  in  a  stupor  like  unto  death.  The  child 
lay  upon  her  breast,  as  a  frail  flower  drifted 
there  by  a  chance  wind.  Ealasaid  sat  by  the 
bed  watching.  Mary  knelt  against  it,  crying 
silently. 

Toward  dawn,  Mrs.  Maclean  rose,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  chill  dusk.  When  she 
came  back,  she  kneeled  again ;  and,  in  a  low 
voice,  repeated  a  strange  Celtic  "  Prayer  of 
Women  " : 

125 


Pharais 

O  Spirit,  that  broods  upon  the  hills 

And  moves  upon  the  face  of  the  deep, 

And  is  heard  in  the  wind, 

Save  us  from  the  desire  of  men's  eyes, 

And  the  cruel  lust  of  them, 

And  the  springing  of  the  cruel  seed 

In  that  narrow  house  which  is  as  the  grave 

For  darkness  and    loneliness  .  .  . 

That   women   carry   with   them   with   shame,    and 

weariness,  and  long  pain, 
Only  for  the  laughter  of  man's  heart, 
And  the  joy  that  triumphs  therein, 
And  the  sport  that  is  in  his  heart, 
Wherewith  he  mocketh  us, 
Wherewith  he  playeth  with  us, 
Wherewith  he  trampleth  upon  us. 
Us,  who  conceive  and  bear  him ; 
Us,  who  bring  him  forth ; 
Who  feed  him  in  the  womb,  and  at  the  breast   and 

at  the  knee: 
Whom  he  calleth  Mother, 
And  Mother  again  of  his  wife  and  children: 
When  he  looks  at  our  hair,  and  sees  it  is  white; 
And  at  our  eyes,  and  sees  they  are  dim; 
And  at  our  lips,  straitened  out  with  long  pain; 
And  at  our  breasts,  fallen  and  seared  as  a  barren 

hill; 
And  at  our  hands,  worn  with  toil; 
And,  seeing,  seeth  all  the  bitter  ruin  and  wreck  of 

us — 
All  save  the  violated  womb  that  curses  him — 
All  save  the  heart  that  forbeareth   .   .   .  for  pity — 
All  save  the  living  brain  that  condemneth  him — 
All  save  the  spirit  that  shall  not  mate  with  him — 
All  save  the  soul  he  shall  never  see 

126 


Pharais 

Till  he  be  one  with  it,  and  equal; 

He  who  hath  the  bridle,  but  guideth  not; 

He  who  hath  the  whip,  yet  is  driven; 

He  who  as  a  shepherd  calleth  upon  us, 

But  is  himself  a  lost  sheep,  crying  among  the  hills! 

O  Spirit,  and  the  Nine  Angels  who  watch  us, 

And  Thy  Son,  and  Mary  Virgin, 

Heal  us  of  the  Wrong  of  Man: 

We,  whose  breasts  are  weary  with  milk, 

Cry,  cry  to  Thee,  O  Compassionate! 

Ealasaid  trembled.  She  had  never  heard 
words  such  as  these  before,  and  was  afraid; 
yet  even  more  of  the  strange  intensity  in  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Maclean,  in  the  shine  of  her 
usually  quiet  eyes. 

"  God  be  with  you,  Mary  Maclean." 
"And  with  you,  Ealasaid  MacAodh." 
Therewith  Mrs.  Maclean  arose,  looked  at 
Lora  to  see  if  she  still  slept,  and  then  went 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  she  seated  her- 
self before  the  hot  glow  of  the  peats;  and,  as 
the  day  broke,  read  below  her  breath  in  the 
third  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Job. 

Weeks  passed,  and  there  was  no  word  of 
Alastair.  For  twenty  days  after  the  coming 
of  the  child,  Lora  lay  distraught,  knowing  no 
one  about  her,  though  oftentimes  looking  long 
and  lovingly  in  the  eyes  of  Mary,  whose  face 
had  won  again  an  exceeding  peace,  and  who 

127 


Pharais 

went,  as  of  yore,  girt  about  with  a  beautiful 
silence  as  with  a  garment. 

But  on  the  last  day  of  the  third  week,  Lora 
awoke  in  her  right  mind.  Mary  had  given  the 
frail,  blind  babe  to  young  Cairistine  Macrae  to 
suckle.  This  was  well;  for  had  Lora  looked 
upon  it  on  that  day,  she  would  have  died. 

Nevertheless,  in  a  brief  while  thereafter  she 
knew  all.  It  seemed  strange,  both  to  Mary 
and  Ealasaid,  that  she  did  not  appear  greatly 
to  care.  She  had  that  in  her  heart  which 
would  have  enlightened  them ;  but  grief,  as 
well  as  madness  or  evil,  has  its  cunning,  and 
so  she  veiled  her  purpose  in  absolute  secrecy. 

Not  a  sign  of  Alastair !  This  was  what  she 
could  not  accept.  Till  his  body,  or  some  trace 
of  it,  were  found,  she  said  she  would  not  re- 
turn with  Mary  to  her  home.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, repaid  the  most  scrupulous  search :  no 
clew  was  gained — unless  the  discovery  of  the 
body  of  Ghaoth,  caught  in  a  trawling  net 
one  night  a  mile  seaward,  could  be  called  a 
clew. 

On  that  day  of  agony  when  she  had  at  last 
looked  on  the  face  of  her  child,  and  knew  it 
stricken  with  frailty  and  blind  for  all  its  days, 
and  heritor  perhaps  of  that  curse  which  had 
caused  her  to  sin  and  incur  this  punishment, 
she  had  made  a  covenant  with  herself  to  go 

128 


Pharais 

down  as  soon  as  she  could  to  the  shore,  at  low 
tide,  and  with  her  child  follow  Alastair  into 
that  abyss  in  the  cavern  where  she  felt  assured 
he  had  been  swept  by  the  sea. 

Two  weary  weeks  passed  before  an  oppor- 
tunity came.  One  afternoon  Mary  went 
across  Innisron,  so  as  to  reach  the  clachan  and 
meet  the  Clansman  for  somewhat  she  ex- 
pected :  and  as  she  was  to  come  back  with 
Ranald  Macrae,  and  he  was  not  to  return  till 
after  dark,  Lora  felt  secure. 

Early  in  the  evening,  she  sent  Ealasaid  on  a 
message  to  Parian  Macalister's  wife,  who  lived 
in  a  cottage  about  a  mile  along  the  shore  be- 
yond the  promontory  of  Ardfeulan. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  mid-July.  The 
moon  was  at  the  full,  and  made  a  golden  dust 
upon  the  isle  and  a  glory  of  pale  gold  upon  the 
sea. 

As  she  went  once  more  down  the  hollow  of 
the  moonflowers — not  so  dense  now  as  then, 
and  many  withered  by  the  heat  of  the  sun  and 
the  month-long  drought — she  stopped  again 
and  again,  overcome  by  the  heat  even  of  the 
dusk. 

In  her  ears  was  the  bewildered,  plaintive  cry 
of  the  lapwings :  and,  as  an  undertone,  the  low, 
soft  chime  —  the  long,  sweet  ululation  of  the 
myriad-swung  bell  of  the  sea. 

129 


Pharais 

She  was  weary  when  she  reached  the  shore. 
An  unspeakable  horror  of  the  cavern  came 
upon  her,  and  she  turned  and  went  slowly 
toward  the  long  sandy  tract  that  stretched 
beyond  the  base  of  the  hollow.  There  she 
laid  the  child  gently  down  in  the  soft  sand 
at  her  feet,  and  seated  herself  on  a  low 
rock. 

After  all,  was  it  worth  while  to  seek  Death, 
when  Death  had  already  whispered  that  the 
little  one  was  to  be  his  own  so  soon,  and  had 
stealthily  removed  all  but  the  last  barriers 
that  guarded  her  own  poor  life? 

Would  God  not  be  even  more  wroth  with 
her  —  punish  her  even  more  heavily;  though 
this,  indeed,  seemed  impossible? 

How  lovely  that  vast  ocean  veiled  in  violet 
dusk,  save  where  lit  gloriously  with  moon- 
light :  how  full  of  alluring  peace,  she  thought 
that  wave-whisper  all  around  her. 

Surely  the  music  was  woven  into  a  song 
that  was  dear  and  familiar  in  her  ears? 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  the  sea, 
and  looked  idly  along  the  sand :  though,  as 
she  did  so,  the  vague  strain  ceased. 

Then  Lora  stood,  trembling  in  a  great  awe, 
and  with  a  passionate  hope  in  her  eyes,  in  her 
heart,  at  the  very  springs  of  life. 

In   the  moonshine,    she    saw   a   tall   figure 

130 


Pharais 

moving  slowly  toward  her,  naked-white,  and 
walking  with  a  proud  mien.  The  erect  body, 
the  flashing  eyes,  the  grace  and  beauty,  were 
those  of  a  king  —  of  a  king  among  men:  and 
as  a  king  the  naked  figure  was  crowned,  with 
moonflowers  and  yellow  sea-poppies  woven 
into  his  gold-sheen  hair. 

Suddenly  he  saw  her.  He  stood  as  though 
wrought  in  impassioned  stone.  The  moonshine 
fell  full  upon  his  white  skin,  upon  the  beauty 
of  his  face,  upon  the  flower-tangle  wherewith 
he  had  crowned  himself. 

Then,  without  a  sound,  he  turned  and  fled 
like  the  wind,  and  vanished  into  the  gloom 
that  lay  beyond  the  dusk. 

And  Lora,  lifting  the  child  and  staggering 
homeward,  knew  that  she  had  seen  Alastair. 


VI 


It  was  not  till  many  weeks  later  that  the 
way  of  Alastair's  escape  from  death  became 
known. 

On  that  dark  night  when  he  had  lain  down 
to  die,  the  wave  which  fell  across  Lora  and 
himself,  and  tore  asunder  the  bonds  she  had 
woven,  was  followed  by  no  other  for  a  time: 
otherwise,  the  end  of  both  would  have  been 

131 


Pharais 

attained.  But  so  great  was  the  shock,  that 
his  apathy  of  mind  and  body  was  rudely 
broken.  The  tired  blood  stung  in  his  veins; 
the  instinct  of  life  was  as  a  flame  of  fire  that 
consumed  all  the  stupor  due  to  the  sea-fruit 
he  had  eaten  —  an  instinct  that  wrought  him 
to  a  passion  of  effort. 

Shaken  and  trembling,  he  staggered  to  his 
feet.  Nothing  but  a  profound  darkness  be- 
yond, behind,  above:  a  darkness  filled  with 
the  voices  of  the  wind,  the  seething  tide,  wave 
falling  over  wave,  billow  leaping  after  billow 
and  tearing  it  into  a  yeast  of  foam  —  itself  to 
stagger  the  next  moment,  and  struggle  and 
strangle  furiously  in  a  cloud  of  spray  ere 
flung  a  dead  mass  upon  the  shore. 

He  had  no  remembrance  of  Lora,  of  what 
had  brought  them  here,  of  the  grave  that  was 
ready  where  the  Sea-Woman  watched. 

But  fear  was  left  to  him :  and  when  he  was 
aware  of  something  moving  across  the  ledges 
to  his  left,  and  heard  it  splash  through  the 
tide-wash  in  its  effort  to  reach  him,  he  gave 
a  terrified  cry,  and  dashed  seaward  to  escape 
the  grip  of  the  kelpie. 

Stumbling,  he  fell  heavily  forward.  But  it 
was  into  deep  water;  and,  powerful  swimmer 
as  he  was,  he  fought  the  surge,  and  so  was  not 
thrown  back  upon  the  rocks  till,  unwittingly, 

132 


Pharais 

he  was  caught  in  a  cross-current  and  swept 
southward  on  the  backs  of  the  reeling  sea- 
horses. 

A  horrible  tumult  was  in  his  ears.  The 
darkness  was  upon  him  as  a  heavy  hand.  As 
idle  flotsam,  the  waves  swung  him  backward 
and  forward. 

A  deathly  cold  beset  his  limbs;  then  utter 
weariness.  His  hands  ceased  to  propel,  and 
only  automatically  and  instinctively  kept  him 
afloat. 

Yet  even  now,  at  the  last  extremity,  when 
memory  was  no  more,  terror  remained. 

There  was  something  swimming  near,  some- 
thing moving  toward  him  through  the  dark. 

The  next  moment  he  threw  up  his  hands, 
overcome  by  the  sickness  of  fear  and  a  fatigue 
that  he  could  no  longer  withstand.  As  he 
sank,  he  was  conscious  of  a  body  surging  up 
against  his;  of  a  hot  breath  against  his  face; 
of  a  gasping  whine  against  his  ear.  Then  in 
a  flash  he  recognised,  or  by  instinct  divined, 
that  it  was  Ghaoth  who  had  followed  into  the 
darkness,  and  was  there  to  save  him. 

The  dog  had  indeed  followed,  having  but 
an  hour  ago  escaped  from  the  byre  where  Ian 
Maclean  had  risen  from  his  sleep  to  let  him 
out  because  of  his  ceaseless  whining.  He  had 
raced  across  the  island,  and  along  Alastair's 

133 


Phar  ais 

and  Lora's  track,  till  he  found  them  where 
they  lay.  Thence,  after  seeing  the  two  whom 
he  loved  lying  silent  and  motionless  in  a  way 
that  made  him  whine  with  fear,  and  knowing, 
as  faithful  dogs  do  know,  that  he  must  win 
help  without  delay,  he  had  sped  back  to  the 
nearest  cottage.  Once  convinced  that  old 
Ealasaid  was  following  to  succour  those  whom 
he  had  left,  he  had  sprung  away  again  through 
the  moonflowers,  and  had  reached  the  en- 
trance to  the  cave  after  fierce  baffling  with  the 
tide-race.  Just  as  Alastair  had  risen  and  was 
staggering  toward  the  sea,  Ghaoth  had  caught 
sight  of  him,  and  had  plunged  without  hesi- 
tation into  the  black  bewilderment  of  waters 
which  had  swallowed  up  the  friend  whom  he 
loved  with  his  life. 

Fortunately,  the  spent  swimmer  was  still 
near  the  shore  —  nearer,  even,  than  when  he 
had  first  fallen ;  for  he  was  now  close  to  the 
headland  of  Craig-Geal,  and  was  already  in 
shallow  water,  which  swung  on  to  a  long  shelf 
of  sand  lying  against  the  entrance  to  another 
of  the  innumerable  caverns  of  that  side  of  the 
island.  But  here  the  sea,  though  at  full-flood 
it  covered  the  sand  and  moved  its  hungry 
lip  for  a  few  feet  within,  did  not  enter,  as 
a  beast  of  prey  halting  unassuaged  at  the  en- 
trance to  its  lair. 

134 


Pharais 

Ghaoth  had  gripped  him  by  the  hair  of  his 
neck,  and  was  now  struggling  to  reach  the 
shore.  Man  and  dog  were  still  flung  to  and 
fro  by  the  waves;  but  the  living  sport  of  the 
sea  was  no  longer  separate.  With  Ghaoth's 
help,  Alastair  made  renewed,  if  despairing, 
efforts. 

Suddenly  his  feet  touched  the  ground  for 
a  moment.  Then,  with  a  staggering  rush,  hav- 
ing shaken  himself  free  of  the  dog,  he  gained 
the  shore,  stumbled  blindly  up  the  low  shelve 
of  the  sound,  and  fell  unconscious  among  the 
soft,  powdery  grit,  midway  in  the  wide,  half- 
roofless  hollow  known  as  the  Cave  of  the  Su- 
laire,  from  the  solan  geese  which  often  con- 
gregated there  in  the  blinding  snow-storms  of 
winter. 

Ghaoth  stood  panting  beside  him  awhile. 
At  last,  with  a  low  whine,  the  dog  pressed  his 
muzzle  against  the  white  face  in  the  white 
sand ;  turned  aside,  whined  again,  and  came 
back  with  lolling  tongue.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
sprang  away  into  the  darkness,  and  back  into 
the  drowning  surge,  with  all  his  loyal,  loving 
heart — beautiful  love  of  the  dumb  animal-soul 
that  God  heedeth  and  cherisheth  no  less  than 
that  other  wandering  fire  He  hath  placed  in 
the  human — eager  to  baffle  with  drift  and  bil- 
low till  he  reached  the  cavern  once  more,  in 

135 


Pharais 

time  to  save  Lora,  of  whose  body  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  as  he  dashed  after  Ala- 
stair. 

In  time,  and  no  more.  He  had  not  long 
rescued  Lora,  who,  also,  had  been  partially 
roused  by  the  shock  of  the  breaking  wave. 
She  had  been  half-standing,  half-leaning 
against  the  higher  ledge,  to  which,  with  diffi- 
culty and  in  blind  instinct,  she  had  clung ;  but, 
as  Ghaoth  reached  her,  she  sank  wearily  and 
lay  back  against  the  dog,  dreaming  she  had 
waked  in  terror,  but  was  now  safe  in  Ala- 
stair's  arms. 

It  was  thus  that  Angus  Macrae  discovered 
them.  Long  afterward  the  islesman  recalled 
how  he  had  seen  the  dog  leap  back  into  the 
darkness.  Whether  Ghaoth  failed  to  reach  the 
Cave  of  the  Sulaire,  and  was  carried  seaward 
by  a  current ;  or  whether  his  strength  failed 
him  in  his  last  effort,  and  he  was  swung  life- 
lessly from  wave  to  wave;  whatever  the  first 
word  of  his  fate  was,  the  last  was  the  finding 
of  his  sea-mangled  body  in  the  trawl-net  of 
a  fisherman  more  than  a  mile  oceanward  from 
Innisron. 

When  Alastair  woke,  an  hour  or  more  after 
dawn,  he  remembered  nothing  of  what  had 
happened.      His   memory,   though   not  killed, 

136 


Pharais 

was  clouded  by  his  madness;  and,  doubtless, 
the  shock  of  what  he  had  gone  through,  with 
the  action  of  the  mermaid's  fruit,  had  further 
weakened  it. 

He  rose  and  looked  about  him  wonderingly. 
Around,  were  the  precipitous  rocks ;  beyond, 
the  sea  stretched  far  into  the  morning  mists, 
calm,  with  a  silver  sparkle  in  the  south-east 
and  turquoise-blue  elsewhere,  except  in  green 
straits  under  the  shadow  of  the  isle,  till  it 
faded  into  opal  and  dove-grey  where  the  veils 
of  mist  slowly  dispersed,  re-wove,  lifted,  in- 
wove, and  sank  to  the  wave  again,  or  sailed 
indefinitely  away. 

Though  he  could  still  recall  nothing  of  the 
past  night,  he  recognised,  as  soon  as  he 
stepped  from  the  cave  and  went  down  by  the 
sea-marge,  the  head-land  of  Craig-Ruaidh  and 
that  of  Craig-Geal  just  behind  him.  His  one 
wish  was  to  hide,  so  that  none  should  see  him. 
His  fantasy  led  him  to  seek  remote  places, 
and  to  fear  the  face  of  his  fellows. 

Turning  toward  the  sun,  he  looked  scruti- 
nisingly  along  the  coast.  Somewhere  beyond 
Craig-Geal,  he  remembered  vaguely,  there 
was  another  hollow  which  led  to  a  series  of 
intricate  and  unexplored  caves,  perilous  places 
of  evil  repute  among  the  islanders. 

If  he  were  to  go  there  .   .   .  but  at  that 

^37 


Pharais 

moment  his  wandering  gaze  lighted  upon 
an  object  moving  black  in  the  shine  of  the 
sea. 

Was  it  a  whale  sunning  itself,  or  a  pollack 
moving  idly  after  the  liath  ?  Then  he  saw  that 
it  was  a  boat — one  of  many  torn  from  moor- 
ings or  swept  from  the  beach  by  the  recent 
gale. 

So  methodical  were  his  actions,  that  none 
seeing  him  would  believe  his  mind  was  so 
darkly  veiled,  that  his  reason  was  only  par- 
tially in  exercise. 

Having  taken  off  his  coat,  he  wrapped  it 
round  a  heavy  stone  and  threw  the  bundle  far 
into  the  sea.  Then  he  thrust  his  boots  into  a 
cranny  in  a  fissured  boulder  that  at  full  flood 
was  covered. 

A  few  seconds  later  he  was  in  the  water, 
swimming  swiftly  toward  the  derelict. 

While  he  neared  the  boat,  amid  a  sheen  of 
sparkling  foam  as  he  urged  his  way  through 
the  sun-dazzle  which  lay  upon  that  part  of  the 
sea,  he  broke  intermittently  into  a  mournful 
Gaelic  chant,  but  with  words  so  incoherent, 
and  with  interjections  so  wild  and  strange, 
that  the  fishermen  on  a  coble,  hid  in  the  mist 
a  few  fathoms  away,  believed  they  listened  to 
a  sea-kelpie,  or  to  that  vague  object  of  their 
profoundest  dread  known  as  "  the  thing  that 

138 


Pharais 

hides  beneath  the  boat."  They  were  south- 
ward bound ;  but  at  that  forlorn  wailing  they 
hauled  down  their  flapping  sail,  and,  with  their 
oars,  made  all  haste  northerly  to  their  island 
or  mainland  haven.  Not  a  man  among  them 
would  have  persevered  in  that  voyage  on  that 
day. 

Alastair  heard  the  sound  of  the  oar-wash, 
and  ceased  his  fitful  chant.  It  must,  he 
thought,  be  dead  seamen  rowing  to  and  fro, 
looking  for  the  newly  drowned  to  take  their 
places  as  warders  of  the  treasures  and  keep- 
ers of  the  secrets  which  lie  among  the  weed- 
tangle  and  sunless  caverns  of  the  deep.  At 
the  thought,  he  laughed  loud,  but  mirthlessly ; 
and  the  echo  of  his  laughter,  falling  against 
the  ears  of  the  fishermen,  added  to  their  hor- 
ror and  consternation. 

With  his  hands  gripping  the  gunwale,  he 
swayed  for  some  time  to  and  fro,  fascinated 
by  the  lustrous  green  beneath  the  keel — green 
in  the  sunlit  spaces  as  leaves  of  the  lime  in 
April,  and  in  the  lower  as  emerald  lapsing  into 
jade,  and  then  as  jade  passing  into  the  gloom 
of  pines  at  dusk. 

At  last  he  raised  himself  on  the  water,  bend- 
ing the  gunwale  low,  and  half  fell,  half 
crawled  into  the  boat.  Indifferently,  he  no- 
ticed that  it  was  named  Fionnaghal.     Clearly 

139 


Pharais 

it  had  drifted  away  from  moorings;  for  not 
only  were  oars  and  sail-enveloped  mast  lying 
taut  under  the  thwarts,  but  a  rope  trailed  from 
the  bow  far  down  into  the  water. 

He  rowed  for  some  time.  At  last,  becoming 
weary,  or  perhaps  puzzled  by  the  mists  which 
crept  behind  and  all  around  him,  he  desisted. 
A  flurry  of  air  struck  his  right  cheek.  In- 
stinctively he  put  up  the  palm  of  his  hand  to 
feel  if  the  wind  were  coming  from  the  south- 
east or  the  south-west.  Then,  adjusting  the 
mast  and  setting  the  sail,  he  seated  himself  at 
the  tiller. 

Eddy  followed  eddy,  and  soon  a  breeze  blew 
freshly  from  the  south-east.  By  the  time  the 
Fionnaghal  was  three  or  four  miles  to  the 
north-west  of  Innisron,  there  was  not  a  mist 
upon  the  sea.  Immeasurably  vast  it  stretched  ; 
blue,  or  glittering  in  a  diamond-sparkle  sheen, 
or  wimpling  over  in  violet  hollows,  with  the 
white  lambs  beginning  to  collect  and  leap  mer- 
rily onward  in  the  pathway  of  the  sun. 

Alastair  became  drowsy  with  the  warmth  of 
the  glow  upon  his  back  and  the  chime  of  the 
sea-music.  Long  before  noon  he  slept.  For 
hours  the  boat  went  idly  adrift. 

When  he  woke,  he  saw  an  island  less  than 
half  a  mile  to  starboard.  Looking  northward, 
he  could  descry  nothing  but  sea ;  to  the  west- 

140 


Pharais 

ward,  nothing  but  sea ;  nothing  but  sea  to  the 
southward.  Far  eastward,  a  dim  blue  line  of 
hills  rose  above  the  horizon :  here  and  there — 
lying  apparently  against  it,  and  scarce  bigger 
to  his  eye  than  the  gannets  and  sea-mews 
which  flew  overhead — two  or  three  patches  of 
amethyst.  These  were  the  isles  he  had  left, 
though  he  did  not  recognise  them :  Ithona, 
most  westerly ;  Innisron,  remote  in  the  south- 
east ;  I-na-Trilleachan-trahad,  lost  in  its  north- 
erly purple-greys. 

Though  the  words  brought  no  meaning  to 
him,  or  awakened  nothing  beyond  mere  visual 
reminiscence,  his  lips,  as  he  looked  at  the 
island  he  was  now  approaching,  framed  its 
name,  "  I-M6nair." 

Heedless  of  the  fact  that  he  was  running 
straight  upon  a  shore  set  with  reefs  like  gi- 
gantic teeth,  he  tautened  the  sail  and  let  the 
boat  rush  forward,  and  was  almost  havened 
when,  with  a  grinding  rip,  the  Fionnaghal 
stopped,  filled,  leaned  over,  and  hung  upon  a 
jagged  reef,  as  a  dead  body  suspended  on  the 
horn  that  has  gored  it. 

Alastair  was  thrown  forward  by  the  shock. 
Bruised  and  stunned,  he  lay  motionless  for  a 
few  seconds  while  the  water  poured  over  him. 
Then,  rising  and  casting  a  keen  glance  around, 
he  stepped  on  to  the  reef,  sprang  thence  to  a 

141 


Pharais 

rock  nearer  the  shore,  and  thence  to  the  shore 
itself. 

As  he  left  the  boat,  it  split.  The  larger  half 
went  drifting  on  the  tide. 

He  sat  down  to  watch  idly  for  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  few  planks  which  remained. 
Suddenly,  without  cause,  he  rose,  stared 
wildly  at  the  sea  and  along  the  shore  on  either 
hand,  and  then  moved  rapidly  inland — often 
casting  furtive  glances  behind  him,  now  on 
the  one  side,  now  on  the  other. 

No  other  lived  on  I-M6nair  than  a  shepherd 
and  his  wife;  and  they  only  through  the  sum- 
mer months.  Sometimes  weeks  passed  by 
without  their  seeing  another  soul :  without 
other  sign  of  the  world  of  men  than  the  smoke 
of  a  steamer  far  upon  the  horizon,  or  the 
brown  patches  in  the  distance  when  the  her- 
ring-trawlers ventured  oceanward. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Fearghas  Mclan 
gave  a  cry  of  astonishment,  that  was  partly 
fear,  when  he  saw  a  man  walking  swiftly 
toward  him  ...  a  man  who  appeared  to 
have  dropped  from  the  clouds;  for,  look- 
ing beyond  the  stranger,  the  shepherd  could 
see  no  sign  of  trawler,  wherry,  or  boat  of  any 
kind. 

"  Dionaid,  Dionaid,"  he  cried  to  his  wife, 
who  had  come  to  the  door  of  the  cottage  to 

142 


Pharais 

see  if  he  were  at  hand  for  his  porridge; 
"  Trothad  so  .  .  .  bi  ealamh,  bi  ealamh : 
quick,  quick,  come  here." 

They  stood  together  as  Alastair  slowly  drew 
near.  When  he  was  close,  he  stopped,  looking 
at  them  curiously,  and  with  an  air  as  if  he 
wondered  who  they  were  and  why  they  were 
there. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  quietly, 
looking  at  the  shepherd. 

"  C'ainm'  tha  ort?  "  he  repeated,  as  the  man 
stared  at  him  in  surprise  and  something  of 
alarm. 

"  Fearghas  Mclan." 

"  And  yours  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  woman. 

"  Dionaid  Mclan." 

"  Co  tha  sin  ?  "  he  added  abruptly,  pointing 
to  the  cottage :  "  who  is  there  ?  " 

"  No  one." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  some  one  come  out,  look 
at  us,  and  go  in  again." 

Fearghas  and  Dionaid  glanced  at  each  other 
with  eyes  of  dread. 

"C'ainm'  tha  ort?"  asked  the  former,  in 
turn. 

Alastair  looked  at  him,  as  if  uncomprehend- 
ingly ;  and  then,  in  a  low,  dull  voice,  said  that 
he  was  tired ;  that  he  was  hungry,  and  thirsty, 
and  wet. 

143 


Pharais 

1  Tha  mi  gle  sgith ;  tha  an  t  acras  orm ;  tha 
am  pathadh  orm ;  tha  mi  fliuch." 

"  How  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  Tha  mi  gle  sgith." 

"Did  you  come  in  a  boat?  Where  is  the 
boat  you  came  in  ?  " 

"  Tha  mi  gle  sgith." 

'What  is  your  name?  Are  you  of  the 
isles?" 

"  Tha  mi  gle  sgith." 

'  What  do  you  want  with  us  here,  on  I- 
Monair,  where  we  do  no  wrong,  O  stranger 
who  carry  your  sorrow  in  your  eyes  ?  " 

'  Tha  mi  gle  sgith.  Tha  mi  fliuch.  Tha  an 
t'  acras  orm.  Tha  mi  gle  sgith — tha  mi  gle 
sgith — tha  mi  gle  sgith." 

Alastair  spoke  in  a  strange,  dull  voice.  It 
would  have  terrified  Fearghas  and  Dionaid 
more,  but  that  the  stranger  was  so  gentle  in 
his  manner,  and  had  a  look  upon  his  face  that 
awed  while  it  reassured  them. 

"  God  has  sent  him,"  said  Dionaid,  simply. 
'  The  poor  lad  has  not  waked — he  is  in  a 
dream.  God  do  unto  us  as  we  do  unto  this 
waif  from  the  sea.  In  His  good  time  He  will 
whisper  in  the  closed  ears,  and  the  man  will 
wake,  and  tell  us  who  he  is,  and  whence  he 
came,  and  whither  he  would  fain  go." 

"  So  be  it,   Dionaid.     You   have   said  the 

144 


Pharais 

word,  and  a  good  word  it  is.  When  this  man's 
hour  has  come,  God  will  deliver  him.  Mean- 
while, let  us  call  him  Donncha,  after  the  boy 
we  lost  nigh  upon  six-and-twenty  years  ago, 
who  might  have  been  as  tall  and  comely  as 
this  stranger  that  is  now  a  stranger  no  more, 
but  of  us  and  one  with  us." 

And  so  it  was  that,  from  that  day,  Alastair 
Macleod,  unsought  by  any,  and  unrecognised 
because  no  one  came  near  who  might  have 
known  or  guessed  who  he  was,  abode  on  I- 
Monair  with  Fearghas  the  shepherd  and  his 
wife  Dionaid. 

He  dwelt  in  peace.  Through  the  long  days 
he  wandered  about  the  shores.  Often,  in  the 
gloaming,  he  sat  on  a  rock  and  stared  long- 
ingly across  the  waters  for  he  knew  not  what, 
for  some  nameless  boon  he  craved  witlessly; 
stared  yearningly  through  the  dusk  for  some- 
thing that  lay  beyond,  that,  though  unseen, 
brought  a  mist  into  his  eyes,  so  that  when  he 
reached  the  peat-fire  again,  where  Dionaid 
Mclan  awaited  him,  he  often  could  not  see  to 
eat  for  a  while  for  the  blur  of  his  slow-falling 
tears. 

Week  succeeded  changeless  week.  The  sheep 
ceased  to  look  up  as  he  passed.  The  yellow- 
hammers   in   the   gorse   sang   even   when  he 

145 


Pharais 

stopped  brooding  by  the  bush  whereon  they 
flitted  from  branch  to  branch,  looking  at  him 
with  quiet  eyes. 

It  was  in  the  sixth  week,  after  a  time  of 
storm  which  had  lapsed  into  another  long  spell 
of  exquisite  summer,  that  the  dream  came  to 
its  end. 

Late  one  afternoon,  a  herring-trawler  lay 
off  I-M6nair.  The  skipper,  a  kinsman  of 
Fearghas,  came  ashore  to  give  and  learn  what 
news  there  was. 

Alastair  had  come  back  about  the  usual  time 
from  one  of  his  day-long  rambles,  and,  as  he 
approached  the  door,  his  quick  ear  had  caught 
the  sound  of  an  alien  voice. 

Whether  he  overheard  the  shepherd  tell  his 
friend,  in  turn  for  the  strange  and  moving  tale 
of  Alastair  MacDiarmid  Macleod,  of  Innis- 
ron,  of  the  strange  visitor  he  and  his  wife 
nourished,  with  the  surmise  that  he,  Donncha, 
might  be  no  other  than  the  missing  man;  or 
whether  some  other  suggestion  concerning  his 
removal  or  identification  alarmed  him,  no  one 
ever  knew. 

But,  in  the  cloudy  dark  of  that  night,  when 
Rory  Mclan  and  his  two  mates,  Dughall  and 
Eoghann,  were  drinking  the  crude  spirit  from 
Fearghas'  illicit  still,  Alastair  slipped  into  the 
small  boat  in  which  they  had  come  ashore,  and 

146 


Pharais 

rowed  softly  away  into  the  obscure  and  lonely 
wilderness  of  the  sea. 

Truly,  as  Dionaid  said,  God  must  have 
whispered  in  the  closed  ears,  and  told  him 
whither  to  guide  the  boat,  and  when  to  rest 
while  he  let  it  drift,  and  when  to  take  up  the 
oars  again.  For,  betwixt  dawn  and  sunrise, 
the  fugitive,  oaring  slowly  out  of  a  pearly 
haze,  came  abruptly  upon  the  south-west  of 
Innisron. 

With  a  cry  of  gladness,  he  leaned  forward, 
shading  with  his  right  hand  his  eager  eyes. 
He  had  recognised  familiar  features  of  shore 
and  headlands.  The  whim  took  him  to  cap- 
size the  boat  and  swim  ashore.  In  sudden  ex- 
citement, he  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  little 
craft  rocked  wildly.  The  next  moment  Ala- 
stair  had  left  the  upturned  keel  to  drift  in  the 
grey  sea  like  a  water-snake,  and  was  swim- 
ming swiftly  across  the  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  which  lay  between  the  island  and  the 
place  where  he  had  fallen. 

When  he  reached  the  shore,  he  wandered 
slowly  to  and  fro,  his  new-born  energy  having 
lapsed  into  a  vague  unrest.  Aimlessly  he 
leaned  now  against  one  boulder,  now  against 
another.  At  last,  the  chill  of  his  dripping 
clothes  gave  him  active  discomfort.  He  looked 
doubtfully  on  the  slopes,  then  at  the  sea,  then 

147 


Pharais 

again  at  the  slopes.  With  the  strange  im- 
pulsiveness of  his  disease,  he  turned  abruptly ; 
with  swift,  stumbling  steps,  crossed  the  shore; 
passed  the  ridges  covered  with  sea-grass,  and 
entered  the  shaws  beyond.  Thence  he  walked 
quickly  up  the  corrie  behind  Craig-Geal.  When 
he  gained  the  upper  end,  the  sunrise  shone  full 
upon  him.  Flinging  first  one  wet  garment 
from  him,  and  then  another,  he  was  speedily 
naked — beautiful  in  his  fair  youth,  with  his 
white  skin  and  tangle  of  yellow  hair,  which, 
as  the  sun-rays  blent  with  it,  seemed  to  spill 
pale  gold. 

He  laughed  with  pleasure ;  then  raced  to 
and  fro  for  warmth.  When  tired,  he  stooped 
to  pluck  the  thyme  or  tufts  of  gale.  For  a 
while,  he  wandered  thus  circle-wise,  aimlessly 
happy. 

The  day  came  with  heat,  and  hourly  grew 
hotter.  Alastair  was  glad  to  lie  down  in  a 
shady  place  by  a  burn,  and  drowse  through 
the  long,  warm  hours.  As  the  afternoon 
waned  into  gloaming,  he  rose,  and,  forgetful 
of  or  unheeding  his  discarded  clothes,  wan- 
dered idly  northward  by  one  of  the  many 
sheep-paths.  It  was  late  when,  having  woven 
for  himself  a  crown  of  moonflowers  into 
which  he  inserted  afterward  a  few  yellow  sea- 
poppies,  he  made  his  way  down  to  the  sea, 

148 


Pharais 

and  hungrily  ate  of  what  shell-fish  he  could 
gather — briny  cockles  from  the  sand,  and 
whelks  and  mussels  from  the  rocks. 

At  the  coming  of  the  moonlight  across  the 
water,  he  laughed  low  with  joy.  It  was  only 
in  the  darkness  he  heard  the  Voice  in  the  sea 
which  called,  called,  called,  and  terrified  him 
so  even  while  it  allured  him.  The  waves,  dan- 
cing and  leaping  in  the  yellow  shine  and  break- 
ing into  a  myriad  little  cups  and  fleeting  hol- 
lows, sang  a  song  that  filled  him  with  joy. 

Then  it  was  that,  with  erect  head,  flashing 
eyes,  and  proud  mien,  crowned  with  moon- 
flowers  and  sea-poppies,  and  beautiful  in  the 
comeliness  of  his  youth,  Alastair  appeared  be- 
fore the  startled  eyes  of  Lora,  who,  for  the 
second  time,  had  come  down  to  that  shore  to 
woo  and  win  Death. 

When,  late  that  night,  Mary  Maclean  re- 
turned, she  found  Lora  in  Ealasaid's  arms, 
sobbing  and  moaning  hysterically. 

It  was  long  ere  she  was  able  to  learn  the 
exact  truth,  and  at  first  she  doubted  if  Lora 
were  not  suffering  from  a  hallucination.  But 
as  the  young  mother  grew  calm,  and  took  up 
her  frail  babe  and  kissed  it  with  tears,  Mary 
was  won  to  believe  in  at  least  the  possibility 
that  the  vision  was,  if  not  of  Alastair  in  the 

149 


Pharais 

body,  at  any  rate  the  wraith  of  him,  allowed 
to  be  seen  of  Lora  out  of  God's  pity  of  her 
despair. 

The  night  was  too  far  gone  for  anything  to 
be  done  straightway;  but  she  promised  to  go 
forth  with  Lora  at  sunrise  and  see  if  that 
white,  flower-crowned  phantom  walked  abroad 
in  the  day,  and  was  no  mere  fantasy  of  the 
moonshine. 

She  had  fallen  asleep  when,  at  dawn,  Lora 
aroused  her. 

Without  a  word,  she  rose  from  the  chair, 
wrapped  a  shawl  about  her,  and  then,  kissing 
Lora  gently,  looked  at  her  with  quiet,  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Mary?" 

"  You  still  believe  that  you  saw  Alastair 
.  .  .  Alastair  in  the  body?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  had  you  not  better  take  the  child 
with  you?  I  will  carry  the  little  one.  If  he 
should  see  it — perhaps  he  would.  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  right,  dear  friend.  God  has  put 
that  thought  into  your  mind." 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  two  women  passed 
out  into  the  cold,  fresh  morning;  Mary  going 
first  with  the  child,  and  keeping,  wherever 
practicable,  to  the  sheep-paths  or  to  the  barren 
ledges  that  ran  out  every  here  and  there  from 

l5o 


Pharais 

the  heather  and  bracken,  and  this  because  of 
the  dews  which  lay  heavily,  giving  a  moon- 
white  sheen  to  the  grass,  and  sheathing  every 
frond  and  leaf  and  twig  as  with  crystal,  glis- 
tening rainbow-hued. 

They  took  a  path  that  trailed  above  the  hol- 
low of  the  moonflowers,  and  led  deviously 
shoreward  by  the  side  of  Craig-Geal. 

When  they  reached  the  summit  of  the 
grassy  brae,  where  the  path  diverged,  they 
looked  long  in  every  direction.  Nowhere 
could  they  discern  sign  of  any  human  being. 
Not  a  soul  moved  upon  the  upland  moors; 
not  a  soul  moved  upon  the  boulder-strewn, 
rowan-studded  slopes ;  not  a  soul  moved  by 
the  margin  of  that  dead-calm  sea,  so  still  that 
even  the  whisper  of  its  lip  was  inaudible, 
though  the  faint  aerial  echo  of  the  crooning  of 
its  primeval  slumber-song  slipped  hushfully 
into  the  ear. 

They  were  half-way  down  toward  the  shore 
when  Mrs.  Maclean,  holding  up  a  warning 
hand,  stopped. 

"  What  is  it,  Mary  ?  "  Lora  whispered.  "  Do 
you  see  anything?    Do  you  see  him?" 

"  Look !  "  and,  as  she  spoke,  Mary  pointed 
to  a  dip  in  the  little  glen. 

Under  a  rowan,  heavy  with  clusters  of 
fruit,  as  yet  of  a  ruddy  brown  touched  here 

151 


Pharais 

and  there  with  crimson,  a  white  figure 
stooped,  leaning  over  one  of  the  pools  wherein 
the  falling  burn  slept  and  dreamed  awhile  ere 
it  leaped  again  from  ledge  to  ledge,  or  slipped 
laughing  and  whispering  through  time-worn 
channels. 

He  was  like  some  beautiful  creature  of  an 
antique  tale.  Even  as  a  wild  deer,  he  stooped 
and  drank;  looked  questioningly  through  the 
rowans  and  birches,  and  then  across  the 
bracken  where  the  sun-rays  slid  intricately  in 
a  golden  tangle;  then,  stooping  again,  again 
drank. 

The  sunlight  was  warm  about  him.  His 
shoulders  and  back  gleamed  ivory-white, 
dusked  flickering  here  and  there  with  leaf- 
shadows.  A  shadowy  green-gloom  lay  upon 
his  curved  breast  and  against  his  thighs,  from 
the  sheen  of  the  water  passing  upward  through 
the  dense  fern  that  overhung  the  stream. 

"  It  is  the  young  god,"  thought  Mary ;  "  the 
young  god  who,  Seumas  the  Seer  says,  was 
born  of  human  hope,  weaned  with  human 
tears,  taught  by  dreams  and  memories,  and 
therewith  given  for  his  body,  Beauty  .  .  .  and 
for  his  soul,  Immortal  Joy." 

But  aloud  she  murmured  only,  "  It  is  he 
— the  Beautiful  One  —  of  the  Domhan 
Tdir!" 

152 


P  harms 

Lora  did  not  look  at  her ;  but  below  her 
breath  whispered,  "  It  is  Alastair." 

Swiftly  and  silently,  they  moved  forward. 

So  intent  was  Alastair,  after  he  had 
quenched  his  thirst,  upon  what  he  saw  or  im- 
agined in  the  pool  beneath  him,  that  he  did 
not  hear  their  steps  till  they  were  but  a  few 
yards  away. 

"  Alastair! " 

He  lifted  his  head  and  listened. 

"  Alastair!  " 

The  sudden  fear  passed  from  his  eyes.  A' 
smile  came  into  them,  and  his  lips  parted : 

'  Lora  .  .  .  Lora  bhan  .  .  .  Lora,  my 
beautiful  gloom  .  .  .  my  fawn  .  .  .  my  little 
one.  .  .  ." 

As  he  spoke,  with  low,  caressing,  yearning 
voice,  he  looked  into  the  heart  of  the  pool 
again,  and  stretched  forward  his  arms  long- 
ingly. 

A  sob  behind  him  fell  upon  his  ears.  Star- 
tled, he  sprang  back. 

For  more  than  a  minute,  he  looked  intently 
at  Lora  and  Mrs.  Maclean.  Then,  slowly, 
some  reminiscence  worked  in  his  brain.  Slow- 
ly, too,  the  dark  veil  began  to  lift  from  his 
mind  ;  slightly,  and  for  a  brief  while  at  most. 

"  Mary !  " 

153 


Pharais 

Mrs.  Maclean  made  a  step  toward  him, 
but  stopped.  The  peace  that  was  about  her  at 
all  times  breathed  from  her,  and  lay  upon  him. 
The  benediction  of  her  eyes  upheld  him. 

Quietly  she  spoke,  with  her  right  hand 
pointing  to  the  sobbing  woman  at  her  side. 

"Alastair  .  .  .  this  is  Lora,  who  has  sought 
you  far,  and  now  has  found  you." 

"Lora?  Lora  is  dead!  She  is  a  beautiful 
spirit,  and  sleeps  in  that  pool  under  the  rowan. 
She  walked  with  me  last  night  in  the  moon- 
shine. She  has  a  beautiful  child  that  is  our 
child.  It  is  now  a  song,  singing  in  the  sun- 
shine. I  heard  it  at  dawn,  when  I  was  listen- 
ing to  the  stars  calling  one  to  another.  It  is 
a  song  of  joy  about  the  doorway  of  Pharais. 
I  saw  the  golden  doors  open  a  brief  while 
ago — the  doors  of  Pharais.  Our  little  child 
danced  in  the  glory  as  a  mote  in  a  sunbeam. 
But  Lora  is  dead." 

"  Hush !  Lora  is  not  dead,  but  liveth.  Lora 
is  here.  See,  her  tears  run  for  you — her 
bosom  heaves  for  you — her  arms  reach  for 
you!" 

Slowly  the  dreamer  advanced.  He  would 
not  come  quite  close  at  first,  but  there  was  a 
wonderful  new  light  in  his  eyes. 

"Alastair!  Alastair!  It  is  I,  Lora!  Come 
to  me !    Come  to  me !  " 

154 


Pharais 

"  If,  indeed  ...  if,  indeed,  you  are  Lora 
.  .  .  Lora,  my  joy  .  .  .  where  is  our  child 
whose  soul  I  heard  singing  in  the  sunshine 
over  against  Tigh-na-Pharais  ?  " 

Without  a  word,  and  swiftly,  Lora  took  her 
poor  blind  blossom  from  Mary,  and  held  the 
child  toward  him. 

"  It  is  God's  gift  to  us,  Alastair,"  she  added 
at  last,  seeing  that  he  came  no  nearer,  and 
looked  at  the  child  wonderingly. 

He  advanced  slowly,  till  his  breath  fell  upon 
Lora's  hands,  and  made  her  heart  strain  with 
its  passion.  Stopping,  he  stretched  forth  his 
right  hand  and  gently  touched  the  sleeping 
face.  A  sun-ray  fell  upon  it.  Then  a  smile 
grew  upon  the  little  parted  lips,  as  the  spirit 
of  a  flower  might  grow  and  bloom  bodiless  in 
dreamland. 

Alastair  smiled.  With  soft,  caressing  hand, 
he  smoothed  the  child's  face  and  little,  uplifted 
arm.  Then  he  took  it  gently  from  its  mother, 
kissed  it,  handed  it  to  Mary. 

And  having  done  this,  he  opened  his  arms 
and  said  one  word  :   "  Lora !  " 

None  saw  their  return.  Mrs.  Maclean  went 
before  them  with  the  child,  and  at  once  sent 
Ealasaid  out  to  keep  watch  and  ward  against 
the  coming  of  any  one.    Thereafter  she  swift- 

155 


Pharais 

ly  made  all  ready  for  those  whom  God  had 
lifted  out  of  the  grave. 

But  so  weary  was  Alastair — so  far  spent  by 
hunger,  and  fatigue,  and  exposure — that  he 
could  not  put  on  the  clothes  laid  ready  for 
him.  So  Lora  led  him  gently  to  bed;  and 
there,  after  he  had  swallowed  a  little  broth 
and  warm  milk,  he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep 
which  lasted  till  dark,  and  then,  after  a  brief 
interval  wherein  he  ate  ravenously,  till  late 
on  the  morrow. 

From  that  time  forth,  Alastair's  madness 
took  a  new  form.  All  of  dark  gloom,  of 
dread  or  vague  fear,  went  from  him.  His 
reason  seemed  to  be  a  living  energy  again, 
though  still  bewilderingly  distraught  at  times, 
and  ever  veiled. 

Nevertheless,  that  day  of  his  awakening 
after  his  long,  life-saving  slumber  was  the  last 
wherein  the  things  of  his  past  and  the  affairs 
of  the  present  were  realities  to  him.  Con- 
cerning these,  he  could  listen  to  little  and 
speak  less ;  and,  again  and  again,  his  strug- 
gling thought  became  confused  and  his  words 
incoherent. 

Yet  Lora  learned  enough  to  know  what  his 
one  passionate  wish  was.  Full  well  he  knew 
that  the  end  was  not  far  from  him;  but  be- 
fore he  entered  into  the  silence  he  might  live 

156 


P karats 

many  months ;  and  he  longed  to  leave  Innis- 
ron.  Beyond  words,  he  longed  to  die  in  that 
little  lonely  isle  of  Ithona  which  was  his  sole 
heritage  from  his  mother,  and  where  he  had 
been  born ;  for  his  father  had  brought  his  fair 
Eilidh  there  from  his  old  gloomy  castle  at 
Dunvrechan  for  the  travail  that  was  her 
doom. 

Upon  Ithona  no  one  dwelt  other  than  an 
old  islander  whose  fathers  had  been  there 
before  him   for  generations. 

Seumas  Macleod  was  at  once  shepherd  and 
fisherman,  and  caretaker  of  the  long,  low 
farm-house:  alone  now,  since  the  death  of  his 
wife  at  midsummer  of  that  year.  There  was 
room  and  to  spare  for  Alastair  and  Lora  and 
the  little  one;  for  Mary  also — for  Mrs.  Mac- 
lean never  dreamed  of  parting  from  these  her 
children. 

And  thus  it  was  arranged,  ere  dusk  came 
and  filled  with  violet  shadows  all  the  hol- 
lows that  lay  betwixt  the  cottage  and  the 
sea. 

Three  days  thence,  late  on  a  hot  afternoon 
scarce  cooled  by  the  breeze  that  moved  sound- 
lessly though  steadily  over  the  upland  crags  of 
Innisron,  a  company  of  islanders  was  met  at 
the   little  western   haven  betwixt   Ardfeulan 

157 


Pharais 

and  Craig-Ruaidh.  Every  one  on  the  isle  was 
there,  indeed,  except  the  one  or  two  who  were 
weakly  or  in  extreme  old  age. 

On  the  water,  moored  to  a  ledge,  a  herring- 
trawler,  the  Ellii,  lay  with  her  brown  sail  flap- 
ping idly.  In  the  stern  sat  Lora,  with  her 
child  at  her  breast,  and  beside  her  Mrs.  Mac- 
lean. In  the  waist,  with  a  leg  on  either  side 
of  the  seat,  Angus  Macrae,  who  owned  the 
boat,  leaned  against  the  mast. 

The  islanders  made  a  semi-circular  group. 
In  the  middle  were  six  or  seven  old  men :  on 
either  side  were  the  younger  men,  women  old 
and  young,  and  the  children.  Behind  were 
the  collie  dogs,  squatted  on  their  haunches  or 
moving  restlessly  to  and  fro. 

Some  mischance  had  made  it  impossible  for 
Mr.  Macdonald,  the  old  minister  of  these 
outer  isles,  to  be  present.  Father  Manus,  a 
young  priest  of  Iona,  took  his  place,  and  had 
already  blessed  the  sea,  and  the  Ellu  that  was 
to  voyage  across  it,  and  those  who  were  going 
away  for  ever  from  Innisron,  and  the  weary 
hearts  they  carried  with  them,  and  the  sad 
hearts  of  those  who  were  gathered  to  see 
them  go. 

Alastair,  tall,  frail,  with  wild  eyes  strangely 
at  variance  with  the  quiet  pallor  of  his  face — 
and    to   many    there    scarce    recognisable,    so 

158 


Pharais 

greatly  had  he  altered — was  bidding  farewell 
to  the  elders  one  by  one. 

Not  a  word  else  was  spoken  by  any  than 
the  familiar  good-bye — Beannachd  Icibh.  The 
hearts  of  all  were  too  full. 

At  the  last,  Alastair  came  to  where  Ealasaid 
MacAodh  stood,  crying  silently.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  on  the  brow  and 
then  upon  both  eyes. 

She  watched  him  as  he  moved  slowly  down 
to  the  Ellii.  He  stepped  on  board,  followed 
by  Ranald  Macrae,  and  sat  down  beside  Lora, 
whose  hand  he  took  in  his,  and  with  the  other 
stroked  it  gently. 

As  old  Angus  Macrae  shook  out  the  sail, 
Eaiasaid  suddenly  fell  on  her  knees,  and, 
swaying  to  and  fro,  began  a  wailing  lament : 

"  Tha  mo  latha  goirid, 
Tha  mo  feasgar  fada, 
O,  oi,  oi,  tha  ceo  air  a'  bheinn, 
O,  oi,  oi,  tha  druchd  air  an  Jheur!" 

My  day  is  short, 

Long   is  my  night — 

O,  alas,  alas,  the  mist  upon  the  hill, 

O,  alas,  alas,  the  dew  upon  the  grass! 

Slowly  the  Ellii  moved  out  from  the  haven. 

Lora    and    Mary    sat    with    bowed    heads. 

Alastair  had  turned  and  was  staring  seaward, 

159 


Pharais 

where  a  glory  of  gold  and  scarlet  was  gathered 
against  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 

"  O,  oi,  oi,  tha  cbo  air  a'  bheinn, 
O,  oi,  oi,  tha  driichd  air  an  fheur!" 

sang  the  islanders  in  a  long,  wailing  chant. 

Suddenly  the  sail  filled,  became  taut.  The 
boat  moved  swiftly  before  the  wind. 

A  deep  silence  fell  upon  all.  Then  Griogair 
Fionnladh,  the  oldest  of  the  islesmen,  raised 
the  pipes  from  his  shoulder  and  began  to  play. 

But  the  wild,  mournful,  plaintive  air  was 
not  the  expected  Lament  of  Farewell.  It  was 
the  ancient  Coronach  for  the  Dead. 

One  by  one,  every  man  doffed  his  bonnet ; 
the  white-haired  elders  bowing  their  heads, 
and,  with  downcast  eyes,  muttering  inaudibly. 
Sobs  were  heard  and  tears  fell;  but  no  word 
was  spoken. 

When  the  sun  set,  the  Ellu  was  far  on  her 
way — a  black  speck  in  the  golden  light.  With 
the  coming  of  the  gloaming,  the  islanders 
slowly  dispersed.  Soon  there  was  none  left, 
save  Fionnladh  and  Ealasaid. 

For  a  long  while  therafter  upon  the  twilight- 
water  rose  and  fell,  mingling  with  the  solemn, 
rhythmic  chant  of  the  waves,  the  plaintive, 
mournful  wail  of  the  Coronach  for  those  who 
have  passed  into  the  silence. 

1 60 


Pharais 

When  that,  too,  had  ceased,  there  was  no 
sound  that  the  sea  heard  not  nightly,  save 
the  sobbing  of  the  woman  Ealasaid. 


VII 

Week  after  week,  month  after  month, 
until  nigh  the  end  of  the  fourth,  passed  by 
on  Ithona:  and  they  who  dwelt  there  took 
no  heed  of  the  passage  of  the  days. 

There  are  no  hours  for  those  who  are  be- 
yonder  the  rumour  of  that  "  time  or  chance  " 
of  which  the  Preacher  speaks.  Day  grows  out 
of  night,  and  in  night  fulfilleth  itself  again: 
the  stars  succeed  the  diurnal  march  of  the  sun, 
and  hardly  are  they  lost  in  his  glory  ere  they 
come  again.  Scarce  distinguishable  are  the 
twilight  of  the  dawn  and  the  twilight  of  the 
eve:  and  even  as  the  coming  and  going  of 
these  similar  shadows  are  the  appearance  and 
evanishing  of  the  shadows  whom  we  know  for 
our  fellowmen,  so  little  differing  one  from  the 
other,  individual  from  individual,  people  from 
people,  race  from  race. 

And  even  as  a  shadow,  to  those  who  abode 
on  Ithona,  was  that  world  they  had  seen  so 
little  of,  but  of  which  they  had  yet  known 
enough. 

161 


Pharais 

In  that  remote  island,  solitary  even  among 
the  outer  isles  of  which  it  was  one  of  the  most 
far-set  in  ocean,  there  was  little  to  break  the 
monotony  of  the  hours.  No  steamer  drew 
near,  save  at  long  intervals.  The  coast-guard 
cutter  arrived  intermittently,  but  sometimes 
not  for  months,  coming  like  an  alien  seabird, 
and  as  a  strange  bird  of  the  seas  going  upon 
its  unknown  way  again.  Few  even  of  the  her- 
ring-trawlers sailed  nigh,  except  in  the  late 
summer,  when  the  mackerel  came  eastward  in 
vast  shoals. 

Morning  and  noon,  afternoon  and  evening, 
night  and  the  passing  of  night,  dawn  and  sun- 
rise: these  were  the  veils  that  seemed  to  cur- 
tain off  this  spot  of  earth.  Storm  followed 
calm ;  calm  succeeded  storm ;  the  winds  came 
and  went ;  the  tides  rose  and  fell.  In  summer, 
the  rains  from  the  south ;  in  autumn,  the  rains 
from  the  west;  in  winter,  the  rains  from  the 
north.  Change  followed  change,  but  orderly 
as  in  processional  array.  The  poppies  red- 
dened the  scanty  fields  of  rye ;  the  swallows 
and  martins  haunted  the  island-ways;  the  wild 
rose  bloomed,  as  with  white  and  pink  sea- 
shells  made  soft  and  fragrant.  Then  a  little 
while,  and  the  ling  grew  purple  at  the  passing 
of  the  roses ;  the  hawks  swung  in  the  wind 
when  the  swallows  had  vanished ;  the  campions 

162 


Pharais 

waved  where  the  poppies  had  fallen ;  the  grey 
thistle  ursurped  the  reaped  grain.  In  summer, 
the  Weaver  of  Sunshine  rested  there;  there, 
during  the  equinox,  the  Weaver  of  the  Winds 
abode;  in  winter,  the  Weaver  of  the  Snow 
made  a  white  shroud  for  the  isle  and  wove  a 
shimmering  veil  for  the  dusking  of  the  sea. 
And  as  one  spring  was  like  another  spring, 
and  one  autumn  like  another  autumn,  so  was 
one  year  like  another  year,  in  the  coming  and 
in  the  going. 

Save  for  the  encroaching  shadow  of  death, 
there  was  nothing  to  mark  the  time  for  the 
dwellers  on  Ithona.  Mary  was  aware  that  not 
Alastair  only,  but  Lora,  was  becoming  frailer 
week  by  week.  Lora,  as  well  as  Mary,  knew 
that  the  child's  face  grew  more  wan  and  thin 
almost  day  by  day.  Old  Seumas  Macleod  was 
weary  at  heart  with  the  pity  of  all  that  he  saw. 
Only  Alastair  was  happy,  for  he  dreamed ;  and 
his  dream  was  of  the  loveliness  of  earth  and 
sea  and  sky,  of  the  pathway  that  came  down 
from  heaven  at  sunrise  and  led  back  at  night- 
fall through  the  avenue  of  the  stars  to  the  very 
gates  of  Pharais.  More  happy,  too,  grew  the 
others  as  the  autumn  waned,  and  the  golden 
peace  of  St.  Martin's  aftermath  lay  upon  sea 
and  land;  for  their  eyes  saw  more  anfl  more 
through  the  dreaming  eyes  of  Alastair,  more 

163 


Pharais 

and  more  clearly  they  heard  strains  of  the  mu- 
sic that  haunted  his  rapt  ears. 

Daily  he  went  about  clad  with  dream:  a 
strange  sweetness  in  his  voice,  a  mystery  upon 
his  face.  His  eyes  no  longer  brooded  darkly; 
there  was  in  them  a  bright  light  as  of  a  cloud- 
less morning. 

If,  months  ago,  God  had  filled  with  dusk  the 
house  of  the  brain,  it  was  now  not  the  dusk  of 
coming  night,  but  of  the  advancing  day.  Fan- 
tasies beset  him  often,  as  of  yore,  but  never 
with  terror  or  dismay.  The  moorland  tarn 
held  no  watching  kelpie :  instead,  he  heard  the 
laughter  of  the  fairies  as  they  swung  in  the 
bells  of  the  foxglove ;  the  singing  of  an  angel 
where  the  wind  wandered  among  the  high  cor- 
ries;  whispers  and  sighs  of  fair  spirits  in  the 
murmur  of  leaves,  or  falling  water,  or  chime 
of  the  waves. 

Sometimes  Lora  walked  or  lay  beside  him 
for  hours,  listening  to  his  strange  speech  about 
the  things  that  he  saw — things  too  lovely  for 
mortal  vision,  but  ultimately  as  real  to  her  as 
to  him.  Hope  came  back  to  her;  and  then 
Peace;  and,  at  the  last,  Joy. 

When  not  with  Lora,  he  loved  well  to  be 
with  Mary  or  with  Seumas. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  former  he  would  some- 
times look  for  a  long  time,  seeing  there  the 

164 


P  karats 

secret  home  of  peace,  and  perhaps,  deeper,  the 
unveiled  beauty  of  the  serene  and  lovely  soul. 

Seumas  he  had  loved  from  childhood.  The 
old  islesman  had  never  once  been  on  the  main- 
land ;  though  in  his  youth  he  had  sailed  along 
its  endless  coasts.  Tall  and  strong  he  was,  de- 
spite his  great  age ;  and  his  eyes  were  the  eyes 
of  a  young  man  who  hears  his  first-born  laugh- 
ing and  crooning  against  its  mother's  breast. 
Ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  foreign  tongue  of 
the  mainland,  ignorant  of  books,  and  unable 
to  read  even  a  verse  in  the  Gaelic  Scriptures 
of  which  he  knew  so  many  chapters  by  heart, 
he  was  yet  strong  in  knowledge  and  wise  in  the 
way  of  it  beyond  most  men.  For  he  knew  all 
that  is  to  be  known  concerning  the  island  and 
the  surrounding  sea,  and  what  moved  thereon 
and  lived  therein ;  and,  in  his  humbleness  and 
simplicity,  he  saw  so  deep  into  the  human 
heart  and  into  the  mystery  of  the  soul,  that 
he  was  not  ashamed  to  know  he  was  man,  nor 
to  pray  to  God  to  guide  him  through  the 
shadows. 

It  was  from  Seumas  that  Alastair,  in  boy- 
hood and  youth,  had  learned  much,  not  only 
of  his  store  of  legends  and  ancient  runes  and 
old  Celtic  poetry,  but  also  of  that  living  poetry 
which  makes  the  heart  of  the  Gael  more  ten- 
der than  that  of  other  men,  and  his  brain  more 

165 


Pharais 

wrought  with  vision.  From  him  he  had  first 
heard  how  that  for  one  to  have  died  is  to  have 
"  gone  into  the  silence  " ;  that  for  an  old  man 
or  woman  to  pass  away  in  extreme  age  is  to 
"  have  the  white  sleep  " ;  that  for  a  fisherman 
to  drown  is  for  him  to  have  "  the  peace  of  the 
quiet  wave." 

Seumas  had  filled  his  brain  with  lovely 
words — lovely  in  themselves  and  their  mean- 
ing; but  he  had  made  his  clansman  a  poet  by 
one  thing  that  he  did  and  said. 

For  once,  after  Alastair  had  returned  to  the 
West,  from  the  University  in  St.  Andrew's,  he 
went  to  Ithona  to  stay  for  some  weeks.  At 
sunrise  on  the  morrow  of  his  arrival,  on  his 
coming  out  upon  the  grass  which  sloped  to  the 
shore  a  few  yards  away,  he  saw  Seumas  stand- 
ing, with  his  wide,  blue  bonnet  in  his  hand, 
and  the  sun  shining  full  upon  his  mass  of  white 
hair — not  praying,  as  at  first  Alastair  thought, 
but  with  a  rapt  look  on  his  face,  and  with 
glad,  still-youthful  eyes  gazing  lovingly  upon 
the  sea. 

"  What  is  it,  Seumas  ?  "  he  had  asked ;  and 
the  old  islesman,  turning  to  him  with  a  grave 
smile,  had  answered : 

"  Morning  after  morning,  fair  weather  or 
foul,  after  I  have  risen  from  my  prayers  and 
ere  I  have  broken  my  fast,  I  come  here  and 

1 66 


Pharais 

remove  my  hat  and  bow  my  head,  with  joy 
and  thanksgiving,  before  the  Beauty  of  the 
World." 

From  that  day,  the  world  became  a  new 
world  for  Alastair. 

In  the  quietude  of  dusk — and  day  by  day  the 
dusk  came  sooner  and  the  dawn  later — Mary 
would  sometimes  sing,  or  Seumas  repeat  some 
favourite  Ossianic  duan,  or  chant  a  fugitive 
song  of  the  isles.  But,  toward  the  close  of 
November,  a  silence  fell  more  and  more  upon 
all.  Each  had  grown  a  little  weary  with  the 
burden  of  life:  all  knew  Who  it  was  that  was 
coming  stealthily  across  the  waters,  and  for 
whom  first. 

It  was  on  the  dawn  of  December  that  the 
child  died.  It  seemed  to  lapse  from  life  as  an 
ebbing  wavelet  from  a  pool. 

The  evening  before,  Alastair  had  carried  the 
little  one  to  the  shore.  He  had  never  under- 
stood that  the  child's  eyes  were  sealed,  and 
often  thought  that  it  slept  when  it  was  really 
awake.  When  he  came  to  a  favourite  pool  of 
his,  that  at  low  tide  was  wont  to  flush  with 
any  red  light  spilled  across  the  wave  he  held 
his  tiny  burden  up  laughing  and  crooning  to  it. 

"  Look,  my  pretty  one,"  he  would  murmur, 
"  that   red    light   is   the  blood   of  your   elder 

167 


Pharais 

brother.  Fair  is  He,  the  white  Christ.  He 
has  put  that  there  to  show  that  He  loves  you." 
Or,  again,  he  would  kneel,  and  with  one  hand 
warily  move  aside  the  bladder-wrack  and  other 
sea-weeds;  and  then,  pointing  into  the  trans- 
lucent water,  would  tell  the  blind  sleeper  to 
look  into  the  heart  of  the  pool  and  he  would 
see,  far  down  beyond  a  vast  vista  of  white 
columns,  flight  after  flight  of  shining  golden 
stairs,  which  led  at  last  to  a  great  gate  flashing 
like  the  sea  in  the  noon-dazzle.  And  at  the 
gate  was  a  little  child  like  unto  himself,  sing- 
ing a  sweet  song;  and  just  within  the  gate 
was  a  beautiful  spirit,  whose  face  was  that  of 
Lora,  and  who  could  not  sing  as  the  little  child 
did,  because,  though  she  was  clad  with  joy  as 
with  a  robe,  in  her  eyes  there  was  still  a  last 
lingering  mist  of  human  tears. 

"  And  in  Pharais,  my  bonnie,"  he  would  add 
whisperingly  in  the  child's  unheeding  ear,  "  in 
Pharais  there  are  no  tears  shed,  though  in  the 
remotest  part  of  it  there  is  a  grey  pool,  the 
weeping  of  all  the  world,  fed  everlastingly  by 
the  myriad  eyes  that  every  moment  are  some- 
where wet  with  sorrow,  or  agony,  or  vain  re- 
gret, or  vain  desire.  And  those  who  go  there 
stoop,  and  touch  their  eyelids  with  that  grey 
water ;  and  it  is  as  balm  to  them,  and  they  go 
healed  of  their  too  great  joy :  and  their  songs 

1 68 


Pharais 

thereafter  are  the  sweetest  that  are  sung  in  the 
ways  of  Pharais." 

Often  Lora  or  Mary  would  be  with  him 
when  he  was  thus  speaking ;  for  each  was  fear- 
ful lest  some  day  he  should  discover  that  his 
little  nan  was  blind,  and  could  never  even  open 
the  sealed  lids. 

But  on  that  last  twilight  of  November  Ala- 
stair  seemed  to  have  been  impressed  by  the 
passive  stillness  of  the  child,  and  to  be  trou- 
bled when  he  looked  at  it.  He  had  kissed  the 
eyes  again  and  again,  but  they  had  not  opened ; 
he  had  whispered  loving  words  in  the  tiny 
ears,  but  they  had  not  hearkened. 

All  that  night  he  was  restless,  and  rose  often 
to  look  at  the  two  sleepers  in  the  bed  opposite 
his  own.  Just  before  dawn,  he  looked  for  the 
last  time.  He  was  satisfied  now.  The  little 
one  smiled  .  .  .  but  it  was  because  that  in  the 
soundless,  breathless  passage  from  one  dark- 
ness to  another,  it  had  heard  a  sweet  voice  at 
last,  and  at  last  had,  with  suddenly  illumined 
eyes,  beheld  a  new  glory. 

So  white  and  still  was  it  that,  when  the  cold 
of  the  tiny  hands  against  her  bosom  awoke 
Lora,  she  lay  looking  upon  it  for  a  while,  rapt 
in  a  new  and  strange  awe.  Then,  having 
aroused  Mary,  she  went  to  Seumas,  and 
brought  him  into  the  room.   Mary  had  already 

169 


Pharais 

waked  Alastair,  and  he  sat  holding  the  small 
white  hody  on  his  knees,  stroking  it  gently. 

When  Lora  told  him  that  their  baby  was 
dead,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  what  she  said, 
he  did  not  reply ;  but  a  tear  rolled  down  his 
cheek,  and  he  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  as 
though  to  still  the  ache  of  his  inarticulate  pain. 

But  after  Mary  had  read  from  the  Book  of 
Psalms,  and  prayed  in  a  low  voice,  all  rose 
and  passed  out  into  the  sunshine;  and  Ala- 
stair,  already  oblivious  of  his  loss,  went  down 
by  the  shore,  and  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the 
leap  and  fall,  and  chime  and  whisper,  and 
sweet,  low  laughter  of  the  sunny  waters. 

About  a  hundred  yards  inland  from  the  cot- 
tage, a  gigantic  pointed  stone  rises  from  out 
of  the  heather.  It  is  known  among  the  isles 
as  Fingal's  Bolt,  though  neither  Fionn  nor  his 
son,  Ossian,  ever  threw  that  huge,  flat-sided, 
fang-like  rock.  A  few  rude  lines  and  even 
letters  are  still  discernible  on  the  side  next  the 
sun ;  but  there  is  probably  none  who  could  de- 
cipher that  old-world  rune,  carved  in  bygone 
ages  by  the  hand  of  a  Druid. 

Of  all  places  in  the  island,  except  the  rocky 
headlands  whose  flanks  were  laved  by  the  sea, 
this  Stone  of  the  Past,  as  Seumas  called  it, 
was  that  most  frequented  by  Alastair.  At  its 
base  he  had  listened,  as  a  boy,  to  the  tales  of 

170 


Pharais 

the  old  islander;  beneath  it,  his  fantasy  now 
persuaded  him,  was  one  of  the  hidden  ways 
that  led  to  that  House  of  Paradise  of  which 
he  so  often  dreamed. 

There  the  four  silent  mourners  met  that  af- 
ternoon to  fulfil  the  wish  of  one  among  them, 
who  loved  to  think  that  his  little  uan  would 
come  back  some  moonshine  night  or  in  a  still 
dawn,  and,  taking  their  hands,  lead  his  father 
and  mother  by  that  secret  pathway  through 
Domlian  Tuir  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh,  whence,  in 
good  time,  they  would  arise  and  go  up  into 
Pharais. 

Lora  had  already  been  on  the  spot  with  Seu- 
mas.  While  the  latter  had  dug  the  place  of 
sleep,  she,  with  white  chalk  picked  from  the 
shore,  had  printed  in  large,  heavy  letters  these 
words  upon  the  seaward  side  of  the  stone : 

"  Take  unto  Thy  compassion  this  little  one, 
and  us  who  follow." 

There  were  no  words  spoken  as  Mary, 
kneeling,  took  the  child  from  Lora's  arms,  and 
laid  it,  wrapped  in  a  white  sheet  filled  with 
fragrant  gale,  in  the  wood-shored  grave  that 
had  been  reverently  prepared. 

The  afternoon  had  grown  chill.  Seaward,  a 
gray  mass  had  risen  as  if  out  of  the  waste  of 
waters. 

All  were  still  kneeling — while  Seumas  laid 

171 


Pharais 

turf  and  heather  above  the  small  wooden  lid 
covering  the  narrow  house  that  would  give  the 
body  sanctuary  for  a  time — when  the  snow 
began  to  come  down. 

There  was  no  wind,  so  the  flakes  fell  light 
as  feathers,  grey  in  the  gathering  dusk  as  the 
down  that  falls  from  the  wind-swept  breasts 
of  wild  swans  in  their  flight  to  or  from  the 
Polar  seas. 

Denser  and  denser  it  came;  soundless  at 
first,  but  after  a  while  with  a  faint  rustling  and 
whirling,  as  though  the  flakes  were  wings  of 
invisible  birds  of  silence. 

The  grey  gloom  thickened.  Already  the  sea 
was  obscured.  Its  voice  was  audible  the  more 
loudly  ...  a  calling  voice ;  but  dull,  listless, 
melancholy  with  ancient,  unforgotten  pain  and 
all  its  burthen  of  immemorial  lore. 

The  four  mourners  rose.  The  two  women, 
with  bowed  heads,  murmured  words  of  prayer 
and  farewell.  Seumas,  crossing  himself,  mut- 
tered :  "  Deireadh  gach  comuinn,  sgaoileadh ; 
deireadh  gach  cogaidh,  sith  " — "  the  end  of  all 
meetings,  parting;  the  end  of  all  striving, 
peace."  Alastair  looked  eagerly  through  the 
snow-dusk  lest  the  child  should  come  again  at 
once  and  go  by  them  unseen. 

By  the  time  they  reached  home,  there  was  a 
thick  twilight  all  about  them.     A  little  later, 

172 


Pharais 

looking  out  into  the  night,  they  saw  the  flakes 
drift  over  and  past  them  like  a  myriad  of 
winged  things  hurrying  before  a  wind  that 
pursued,  devouring.  The  island  lay  in  a  white 
shroud.  At  the  extreme  margin,  a  black,  pul- 
sating line  seemed  to  move  sinuously  from  left 
to  right. 

Suddenly  a  deeper  sound  boomed  from  the 
sea,  though  no  wind  ruffled  the  drifts  which  al- 
ready lay  thick  in  the  hollows.  Till  midnight, 
and  for  an  hour  beyond,  this  voice  of  the  sea 
was  as  the  baying  of  a  monstrous  hound. 

None  in  the  homestead  slept.  The  silence, 
broken  only  by  that  strange,  menacing  baying 
of  the  waves  as  they  roamed  through  the  soli- 
tudes environing  the  isle,  was  so  intense  that 
sometimes  the  ears  echoed  as  with  the  noise  of 
a  rush  of  wings,  or  as  with  the  sonorous  sus- 
pensions between  the  striking  of  bell  and  bell 
in  monotonously  swung  chimes. 

Then  again,  suddenly,  and  still  without  the 
coming  of  wind,  the  sea  ceased  its  hoarse,  an- 
gry baying,  and,  after  lapse  within  lapse  till 
its  chime  was  almost  inaudible,  gave  forth  in 
a  solemn  dirge  the  majestic  music  of  its  in- 
most heart. 

At  last,  after  long  vigils,  all  slept,  though 
none  so  deeply,  so  unawakeningly  as  Lora. 

Three  hours  before  dawn  the  snow  ceased 

173 


Pharais 

to  fall.  An  icy  sparkle  glittered  league  after 
league  oceanward,  as  the  star-rays  pierced  the 
heaving  flanks  and  bowed  heads  of  the  sea- 
horses which  had  abruptly  sprung  up  before 
the  advancing  ground-swell. 

The  cold  was  the  cold  of  the  Black  Frost — ■ 
bitter,  sharp  as  a  sword,  nigh  unendurable. 

Shortly  after  dawn,  Alastair  awoke,  shiv- 
ering. He  rose,  threw  some  more  peats 
on  the  fire;  and  then,  having  dressed  and 
wrapped  his  plaid  about  him,  and  softly 
opened  and  closed  the  door,  stepped  out  into 
the  snow. 

His  breath  caught  with  the  cold,  and  a 
greater  weakness  even  than  that  customary  of 
late  made  him  reel,  then  lean  against  the  wall 
for  a  few  minutes. 

Soon  his  faintness  passed.  The  exceeding 
beauty  of  sunrise  over  that  vast  stretch  of 
waters,  over  the  isle  in  its  stainless  white 
shroud,  filled  him  with  an  exalted  joy.  There- 
after, for  a  time,  he  walked  to  and  fro ;  some- 
times staring  absently  seaward,  again  glancing 
curiously  at  his  shadow — scarce  more  insub- 
stantial than  he  himself  had  grown  within  the 
last  month,  and  particularly  within  the  last  few 
days — as  it  lay  upon  or  moved  bluely  athwart 
the  snow. 

After  a  brief  space,  a  rapt  look  came  into 

174 


Pharais 

his  face.    He  turned,  and  gazed  expectantly  at 
the  door. 

No  one  coming  forth,  he  entered,  and,  with 
a  loving  smile,  crossed  to  Lora's  bed. 

"  Sweetheart  ...  my  white  flower  .  .  . 
come.  It  is  so  beautiful.  Pharais  has  opened 
to  us  at  last.  I  can  see  the  steps  gleaming  gold 
within  the  yellow  shine  of  the  sun.  Beyond,  I 
saw  a  mist  of  waving  wings.  Come,  Lora. 
.  .  .  Come !  " 

Cold  and  white  was  she  as  the  snow.  Alas- 
tair  bent,  kissed  her  lips,  but  was  so  wrought 
by  his  vision  that  he  did  not  notice  the  chill 
of  them,  nor  see  the  blue  shadow  in  the  pallor 
of  the  face. 

"Ah,  midmean,  mo  muirnean,  see,  I  will 
carry  you,"  he  murmured  suddenly. 

He  stooped,  lifted  the  beautiful  dead  body 
he  had  loved  so  well,  and,  staggering  beneath 
the  weight,  half  carried,  half  dragged  it  to  the 
snow-slope  beyond  the  door.  Gently  he  placed 
Lora  down.  Then,  going  for  and  returning 
with  a  deer-skin,  laid  her  upon  it,  and  sat 
down  beside  her. 

For  a  brief  while,  he  waited  patiently  for 
her  awakening.  Then  his  eyes  wandered 
again,  now  fixed  upon  the  majesty  of  the  sea, 
reaching  intolerably  grand  from  endless  hori- 
zons to  horizons  without  end ;  now  upon  the 

175 


Pharais 

immense  dome  of  the  sky,  where,  amid  the 
deepest  blue,  high  in  the  north-west  the  moon 
turned  a  disc  of  pale  gold  out  of  an  almost 
imperceptible  flush,  and  confronted  the  flash- 
ing, blazing  sunfire  that,  in  the  south-east, 
moved  swiftly  upward. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  forward ;  his  lips 
parted;  his  eyes  agleam  with  the  inner  flame 
that  consumed  him. 

"  Lora  .  .  .  Lora,  my  fawn,"  he  whispered. 
"  Look !  The  gates  are  opening !  Dear,  all  is 
well  at  the  last.  God  has  given  me  back  to 
you.  My  trouble  is  healed.  Speak  to  me, 
dear ;  too  great  is  my  happiness !  " 

No  sound:  no  movement  of  the  hands:  no 
stir  of  the  closed  eyelids. 

"  Lora !  " 

It  was  strange.    But  he  would  be  patient. 

Idly  he  watched  a  small,  grey  snow-cloud 
passing  low  above  the  island. 

A  warm  breath  reached  the  heart  of  it,  and 
set  the  myriad  wings  astir.  Down,  straight 
down  above  the  isle  and  for  a  few  fathoms 
beyond  it,  they  fluttered  waveringly. 

The  fall  was  like  a  veil  suspended  over 
Ithona :  a  veil  so  thin,  so  transparent,  that  the 
sky  was  visible  through  it  as  an  azure  dusk; 
and  beneath  it,  the  sea  as  a  blue-flowing  lawn 
whereover  its  skirts  trailed;  while  behind  it, 

176 


Pharais 

the  rising  sunfire  was  a  shimmer  of  amber- 
yellow  that  made  every  falling  flake  glisten 
like  burnished  gold.  The  wind  was  utterly 
still;  the  sky  cloudless,  but  for  that  thin, 
evanishing  veil  of  dropping  gold. 

The  sea  lay  breathing  in  a  deep  calm  all 
around  the  isle.  But,  from  its  heart  that  never 
slumbers,  rose  as  of  yore,  and  for  ever,  a 
rumour  as  of  muffled  prophesyings,  a  Voice  of 
Awe,  a  Voice  of  Dread. 


177 


THE   MOUNTAIN    LOVERS 


TO 


Dum.  juga  montis  aper,  jluvios  dum  piscis  amabit, 
Dumque  thymo  pascentur  apes,  dum  rore  cicadae ; 
Semper  honos,  nomenque  tuum,  laudesque  manebunt. 


The   Mountain    Lovers 


The  wind  sighed  through  the  aisles  of  the 
hill-forest.  Among  the  lower-set  pines  there 
was  an  accompanying  sound  as  of  multi- 
tudinous baffled  wings.  This  travelling  voice 
was  upon  the  mountain  in  a  myriad  utterance. 
Round  the  forehead  of  Ben  Iolair  it  moved  as 
an  eagle  moves,  sweeping  in  vast  circles :  the 
rhythm  of  its  flight  reiterated  variously  against 
walls  of  granite,  gigantic  boulders,  and  rain- 
scooped,  tempest-worn  crags  and  pinnacles. 
Lower  were  corries,  furrows  that  seemed  to 
have  been  raked  into  the  breast  of  the  hill  in 
some  olden  time  when  the  solitudes  were  not 
barren.  Therein  the  wind  slid  with  a  hollow, 
flute-like  call.  This  deepened  into  an  organ- 
note  of  melancholy,  when  glens,  filled  with 
birchen  undergrowth  and  running  water,  were 
aloud  with  the  rumour  of  its  passages.  Upon 
the  heights,  upon  the  flanks,  upon  all  the  sun- 
swept  mass  of  Iolair,  the  rushing  noise  of  its 

181 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

pinions  was  as  the  prolonged  suspiration  of 
the  sea.  Beyond  the  forest  of  pines  it  swooped 
adown  the  strath,  and  raced  up  the  narrow 
neck  of  the  Pass  of  the  Eagles,  and  leaped  on- 
ward again  athwart  and  over  the  slopes  of 
Tornideon  that,  gigantic  in  swarthy  gloom, 
stood  over  against  Ben  Iolair. 

In  the  heart  of  the  pinewoods  it  was  meshed 
as  in  a  net.  The  sighing  of  it  through  the 
green-gloom  avenues,  warm  with  the  diffused 
ruddiness  of  the  pine-bark,  was  as  the  sound 
of  distant  water  falling  from  infrequent  ledge 
to  ledge  in  a  mountain  gorge.  Intent  by  the 
fringe  of  the  forest,  or  even  upon  the  under- 
slopes  still  flooded  with  afternoon  sunlight, 
one  might  have  heard  its  rising  and  falling 
sough  as  it  bore  downward  beneath  the  weight 
of  the  branches,  or  slipped  from  bole  to  bole 
and  round  ancient  girths. 

Here  and  there  a  hollow  was  still  as  deep 
water.  Not  a  sigh  breathed  upon  the  mossy 
ground,  thickly  covered  in  parts  with  cones 
and  the  myriad-shed  needles  of  the  pines.  Not 
a  murmur  came  from  the  spell-bound  trees. 
The  vast  boughs  hung  motionless  in  the  silent 
air.  Sometimes  the  upper  branches  stirred, 
but  while  the  shadow-haunted  plumes  ruffled 
as  with  a  passing  breath,  it  was  with  a  slow, 
solemn,  soundless  rhythm. 

182 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

In  one  of  those  sanctuaries  of  peace,  where 
the  forest  was  thinner  and  everywhere  lumi- 
nous with  the  flowing  gold  of  the  setting  sun, 
a  child  danced  blithely  to  and  fro,  often  clap- 
ping her  hands,  but  without  word  or  sound, 
and  with  her  wild-fawn  eyes  ceaselessly  alert 
yet  unquestioning  and  unsmiling. 

In  that  solitary  place  she  was  doubly  alone. 
No  eyes  were  there  to  espy  her,  save  those  of 
the  cushats  and  a  thrush  whose  heart  beat 
wildly  against  her  callow  brood.  She  was  like 
the  spirit  of  woodland  loneliness :  a  lovely 
thing  of  fantasy  that  might  recreate  its  beauty 
the  next  moment  in  a  medley  of  sun-rays,  or 
as  a  floating  golden  light  about  the  green  boles, 
or  as  a  windflower  swaying  among  the  tree- 
roots  with  its  own  exquisite  vibration  of  life. 
So  elemental  was  she,  then  and  there,  that  if 
she  herself  had  passed  into  the  rhythm  of  her 
rapt  dance  and  so  merged  into  the  cadence  of 
the  wind  among  leaves  and  branches,  or  into 
the  remoter  murmuring  of  the  mountain  burns 
and  of  the  white  cataracts  even  then  leaping 
into  the  sun-dazzle  and  seeming  never  to  fall 
though  for  ever  falling — if  this  change  had 
been  wrought,  as  the  swift  change  from 
shadow-gloom  to  sun-gloom,  nothing  of  it 
would  have  seemed  unnatural.  She  was  as 
absolutely  one  with  nature  as  though  she  were 

183 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

a  dancing  sunbeam,  or  the  brief  embodiment 
of  the  joy  of  the  wind. 

As  the  child  danced,  a  human  mote  in  that 
vast  area  of  sun-splashed  woodland,  the  light 
flooded  in  upon  her  scanty  and  ragged  dress 
of  brown  homespun,  from  which  her  arms  and 
legs  emerged  as  the  white  chestnut-buds  from 
their  sheaths  of  amber.  Her  skin  was  of  the 
hue  and  smoothness  of  crudded  cream,  where 
not  sunburnt  to  the  brown  of  the  wallflower. 
Dark  as  were  her  heavily  lashed  eyes,  her 
hair,  a  mass  of  short  curls  creeping  and  twist- 
ing and  leaping  throughout  a  wild  and  tangled 
waviness,  was  of  a  wonderful  white-like  yel- 
low, as  of  the  sheen  of  wheat  on  a  windy  Au- 
gust noon  or  the  strange  amber-gold  of  the 
harvest-moon  when  rising  through  a  sigh  of 
mist.  She  was  beautiful,  but  rather  with  the 
promise  of  beauty  than  beauty  itself — as  the 
bud  of  the  moss-rose  is  lovely  but  has  a  fairer 
loveliness  in  fee.  Though  her  face  was  pale, 
its  honeysuckle-pallor  was  so  wrought  by  the 
sun  and  wind  that  her  cheeks  had  the  glow  of 
sunlit  hill-water.  In  every  line,  in  every  con- 
tour of  her  body,  in  every  movement,  every 
pose,  a  beautiful  untutored  grace  displayed  it- 
self. A  glimpse  of  the  secret  of  all  this  win- 
someness  opened  at  times  in  the  eyes.  These 
were  full  of  a  changing  light.    The  "  breath  " 

184 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

was  upon  her:  on  her  rhythmic  limbs,  on  her 
flowing  hair,  on  her  parted  lips. 

To  and  fro,  flickeringly  as  a  leaf  shadow, 
the  small  body  tripped  and  leapt.  Sometimes 
she  raised  her  arms  when  with  tossed-back 
head  she  sprang  to  one  side  or  forward :  some- 
times she  clapped  her  hands,  and  a  smile  for 
a  moment  dreamed  rather  than  lay  upon  her 
face.  But  none  seeing  her  could  have  thought 
she  danced  out  of  mere  glee.  No  birdeen  of 
laughter  slipped  from  the  little  lips :  the  eyes 
had  a  steadfast  intensity  amid  all  their  way- 
wardness. Either  the  child  was  going  through 
this  fantastic  byplay  for  some  ulterior  reason, 
or  she  was  wrought  by  an  ecstasy  that  could 
be  expressed  only  in  this  way.  Perhaps  no 
one  who  had  met  a  glance  of  those  wildwood 
eyes  could  have  doubted  that  she  was  rapt 
by  an  unconscious  fantasy  of  rhythm. 

A  stillness  had  grown  about  the  heart  even 
of  the  patient  mavis  in  the  rowan  beside  the 
winding  shadow-haunted  pool,  a  few  yards 
away  from  the  spot  where  the  child  sound- 
lessly danced.  A  clear  call  came  from  its 
mate  ever  and  again :  neither  feared  any  longer 
this  dancer  in  the  sunset-shine.  The  cushats 
crooned  unheedingly.  In  a  glade  above,  a  roe 
stood,  gazing  wonder-stricken :  but  after  a 
restless  pawing  of  the  ground  she  lidded  her 

185 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

unquiet  eyes,  and  browsed  contentedly  under 
the  fern. 

Suddenly  the  dancer  stopped.  She  stood  in 
that  exquisite  poise  of  arrested  motion  which 
for  a  moment  the  wave  has  when  it  lifts  its 
breast  against  the  wind.  Intently  she  listened : 
with  eyes  dilated  and  nostrils  swiftly  expand- 
ing and  contracting,  like  any  wild  thing  of  the 
woodlands. 

A  voice,  strangely  harsh  in  its  high,  thin 
falsetto,  resounded  from  the  upper  glades. 

"Oona!" 

The  child  smiled,  relaxed  from  her  intent 
attitude,  and  listlessly  moved  a  step  or  two 
forward. 

"Oona!   Oona!!   Oona!" 

"  It  is  Nial,"  she  muttered.  "  I  don't  want 
him.  I  am  tired  of  helping  him  to  look  for 
his  soul." 

The  words  came  from  her  lips  in  smileless 
earnestness.  To  her,  evidently,  so  fantastical 
a  quest  had  nothing  in  it  of  surprise  or 
strangeness. 

The  startled  roe  had  already  fled.  The 
merest  rustle  of  the  bracken  hinted  the  whi- 
ther-away  of  its  flight.  Instinctively,  Oona,  no- 
ticed the  sound,  and  her  eyes  looked  beyond  a 
distant  clump  of  pines  in  time  to  see  a  gleam 
of  something  brown  leap  out  of  and  into  the 

186 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

tall  fern,  as  a  seabird  among  green  running 
billows. 

Almost  simultaneously  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  an  uncouth  dwarfish  figure  moving  slowly 
through  the  pine-glades. 

Swift  as  a  bird  to  its  covert  she  slipped  into 
the  dusk  of  the  neighbouring  savannah  of 
bracken. 

"Oona!" 

The  voice  was  nearer,  but  from  its  greater 
lift  in  the  air  the  child  knew  that  Nial  had 
stopped,  and  was  doubtless  looking  about  him. 
She  made  no  response.  If  the  searcher  were 
but  ten  yards  away  he  would  not  have  dis- 
covered her.  No  fox  among  the  root  crannies, 
no  hare  crouching  low  in  her  form,  could  have 
more  easily  evaded  detection. 

"Oona!" 

The  voice  was  now  further  away.  Clearly 
Nial  had  turned  westward,  and  was  moving 
through  the  glade  beyond  the  pool.  Once 
more  she  heard  the  harsh,  thin  voice ;  but  now 
it  was  crooning  a  song  wherewith  she  was 
familiar,  the  words  of  which  simulated  the 
plaining  of  the  wild-dove: 

"  Oona,  Oona,  mo  ghraidh: 
Oona,  Oona,  mo  ghraidh: 
Muirnean,  Muirnean,  Muirnean, 
Oona,  Oona,  mo  ghraidh!" 

I87 


The    Mountain   Lovers 

Then  the  silence  closed  in  about  her  again. 
A  relative  silence,  for  she  heard  the  hum  of 
the  brown  bee  drowsily  fumbling  to  its  nest 
under  a  bramble,  the  whir  of  the  stag-moth, 
the  innumerable  indeterminate  rustle  and  hum 
of  the  woodlands  in  summer.  The  cushats 
crooned  ever  and  again,  hushfully  nestling 
amid  the  green  dusk  of  the  boughs.  A  fern- 
owl swooped  through  the  glades,  whence  al- 
ready the  sunset  light  had  vanished,  and 
after  every  short  flight  it  would  poise  on  a 
pine-branch  and  emit  its  resonant  whir.  In 
the  hollow  where  Oona  lay  there  was  still  no 
breath  of  air;  but  overhead  the  wind  stirred 
the  plumes  of  every  tree-crest,  and  its  voice, 
vibrant,  full  of  rising  and  falling  flute-like 
calls,  loudly  surgent,  haunting-sweet,  was  au- 
dible on  all  sides  and  beyond  upon  the  uplands 
of  Iolair. 

The  gloaming,  creeping  from  under  the 
bracken  and  down  from  amid  the  branches  of 
the  pines,  had  begun  to  fill  the  forest  with 
veils  of  shadow.  It  was  for  this  Oona  had 
waited.  Gently  disparting  the  bracken,  and, 
herself  almost  as  insubstantial  and  soundless 
as  a  shadow,  with  one  swift  glance  around  her, 
she  vanished  into  the  darkness  that  involved 
the  columnar  pine-glades. 

In    the    dim,    fragrant    May-bloom    there 

188 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

seemed  nothing  astir  save  white  moths,  which 
flickered  from  bush  to  bush.  The  deer,  if  any 
were  there,  were  resting;  the  roosting  black- 
cock were  as  silent  as  the  doves.  The  remoter 
dusk  was  full  of  the  voices  of  the  wind,  but 
those  distant  aerial  sounds  were  as  the  wings 
that  fan  the  courts  of  Silence. 

Shadow  after  shadow  moved  out  of  the  twi- 
light: soft  velvety  things,  though  intangible, 
that  lay  drowsily  upon  the  boughs  of  the 
pines,  or  slipped  after  each  other  through  the 
intricacies  of  the  fern. 

Round  the  pool  were  many  of  those  lovely 
silent  children  of  the  dusk.  Dim  scores  were 
massed  under  the  branches,  or  crept  among 
the  willows.  Some  hung  from  the  sprays  of 
the  birches,  peering  into  the  ominous  black- 
ness of  the  water  underneath.  Others, 
straight  and  intent,  or  all  tremulous  and  wav- 
ering, stood  among  the  reeds,  the  most  sensi- 
tive of  which  had  still  a  vague  breath  of  sound. 
Many  of  these  merged  into  the  pool,  but  their 
ranks  never  thinned.  By  every  reed  stood  a 
shadow,  intent,  inclined  before  a  wind  that 
blew  not.  Of  all  that  passed  into  the  water 
not  one  reached  the  star  that  gleamed  and 
moved,  and  seemed  to  lift  and  fall  in  the  heart 
of  the  pool.  Not  one  crossed  the  faintly  lumi- 
nous  semi-circle  that  lay   upon  the   surface. 

189 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

Each  sank  down,  down,  till  the  star  in  the 
depths  shone  far  above.  But  by  the  upper 
margins  of  the  pool,  where  the  pines  ran 
steeply  toward  it,  one  shadow  sat  that  did  not 
waver,  did  not  move,  that  grew  darker  and 
more  dark,  blackly  distinct,  though  all  around 
was  blurred  or  fugitive. 

The  night  advanced.  The  shadows  moved 
onward  before  it,  or  were  enveloped  in  its 
folds.  Though  in  the  forest  no  travelling  su- 
surrus  was  audible,  the  wind  had  arisen  again 
upon  the  heights.  Restless,  forlorn,  it  lifted 
its  wild  wings  from  steep  to  steep.  Its  vibrant 
rise,  its  baffled  fall,  re-echoed  faintly  or  dully. 
At  times  there  was  a  thin,  shrewd,  infinitely 
remote  whistling.  This  was  the  myriad  air- 
spray  of  the  wind  driven  through  the  spires  of 
the  heather. 

With  the  second  hour  of  the  night  the  moon 
rose  over  the  shoulder  of  Iolair.  For  a  time  a 
gold  dust  had  glittered  along  the  edges  of  the 
granite  precipices.  Then  the  summit  of  the 
mountain  had  gleamed  like  a  vast  bronze  altar 
lit  by  hidden  lamps.  Suddenly,  almost  in  a 
moment,  a  gigantic  arm  swung  upward  an  im- 
mense globe  of  fire. 

As  the  moon  rose  she  emitted  a  more  yel- 
low flame.  Downward  a  flood  of  orange  glory 
poured  upon  the  highest  peaks — barren,  scori- 

190 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

atcd,  lifeless,  but  for  the  lichens  that  thrive 
upon  snows  and  chill  dews.  The  globe — in 
which,  as  in  the  sun,  could  be  seen  a  whirling 
of  light — rapidly  diminished  in  size.  Less  por- 
tentous, it  swung  through  space  in  an  added 
loveliness.  Serene,  equable,  its  yellow  glow 
spread  over  mountain  and  forest,  down  every 
broad  strath,  each  grave-dark  glen,  down 
every  straggling  hillside  corrie. 

The  coming  of  the  moonbeams  wrought 
a  fantastic  new  life  in  the  forest.  The  light- 
ward  boughs  took  on  a  proud  armour.  The 
branches  moved  against  the  night,  mailed  like 
serpents  with  moving  scales  of  gold  and  silver. 

When  the  first  comers  reached  the  pool  they 
fell  upon  it  with  delight.  Forward  they 
leapt,  and  bathed  their  lovely  golden  bodies 
in  the  water,  which  held  them  to  itself  with 
joy.  A  score  died  to  make  a  silver  ripple,  a 
hundred  perished  to  fill  every  handsbreath  of 
water  as  with  melted  ore.  When  a  water- 
snake  darted  from  the  reeds  and  shot  across 
the  surface,  its  flight  dissipated  innumerable 
vibrations  and  delicate  fugitive  cup-like  hol- 
lows and  waverings,  aureate  or  radiant  with 
white  fires.  A  few  fish  rose  from  the 
weeds  and  crevices,  where  they  had  lain  like 
drifting  leaves.  When  their  fins  shivered 
above   the   surface   there   was   a  momentary 

191 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

dazzle,  as  though  a  little  flame  of  moonfire 
had  fallen  and  for  a  moment  flared  un- 
quenched. 

The  dusk-shadows  had  long  vanished. 
Those  of  the  night,  sombre,  motionless,  waited. 
One  only  remained :  the  same  sitting  shape, 
darkly  distinct,  that  had  stayed  when  the  twi- 
light had  waned. 

There  had  been  no  movement  throughout 
the  long  withdrawal  of  the  light,  the  stealthy 
recapture  of  the  dark.  But  when  the  pool, 
save  for  the  margins,  was  all  one  wave  of 
interlapsing  gold  and  silver,  the  shadow-shape 
at  last  raised  a  shaggy  peaked  head.  For  a 
time  Nial  the  dwarf  stared  vacantly  at  the 
transformed  water.  Then  a  smile  came  into 
his  worn,  fantastic  face,  so  wild  and  rude,  and 
in  a  sense,  so  savage,  and  yet  with  the  unharm- 
ing,  guileless,  and  even  gentle  look  of  most 
wild  creatures  when  not  roused  by  appetite  or 
emotion. 

The  play  of  the  moonbeams  delighted  him. 
When  the  last  of  them  slid  furtively  through 
the  shadows,  and  turned  the  reeds  into  spires 
of  gold,  he  gazed  mournfully  at  the  gloom  of 
the  forest  tarn.  Nothing  now  moved  therein 
except  three  wandering  star-rays,  that  quiv- 
ered and  expanded  and  contracted  as  though 
the   central   phantom-flames   were   alive,   and 

192 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

were  feeling  tremulously  through  this  dim, 
unknown  water-world. 

Once  Nial  rose.  His  small,  high-shouldered, 
misshapen  figure  seemed  scarcely  human ;  the 
rough  clothes  he  wore — patches  of  blurred  and 
broken  shadow  they  appeared  now — might 
have  been  part  of  him,  as  the  hide  of  a  deer, 
or  the  fell  of  any  wild  thing.  When  he  moved, 
it  was  with  woodland  alertness,  with  the  swift 
grace  of  all  sylvan  creatures. 

As  his  feet  plashed  among  the  shallows  he 
stooped.  For  long  he  peered  earnestly  into 
the  water.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  stepped  back, 
and  moved  silently  again  to  the  mossy  stump 
where  he  had  sat  since  nightfall. 

The  late  nocturnal  sounds  that  prelude  the 
dawn  did  not  awake  him,  if  asleep  he  were. 
The  occasional  cries  of  ewes  upon  the  hills 
were  only  as  remote  falling  waves  in  the  sea 
of  silence  and  darkness.  The  bleating  of  a 
restless  stag  ceased  as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun. 

Just  before  the  first  trouble  of  the  dawn 
these  sounds  multiplied.  Ever  and  again, 
though  at  long  intervals,  there  was  the  splash 
of  a  fish,  hawking  along  the  under-surface  of 
the  tarn  for  the  twilight-ephemeridae.  The 
hoarse  gurgling  call  of  the  capercailzie  fell 
through  the  pine-glades.  From  invisible  pas- 
tures came  the  first  muffled,  uncertain  lowing 

193 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

of  the  shaggy  bulls,  standing  beyond  the  still- 
crouching  drowsy  kye,  whose  breaths  made 
a  faint  grey  mist  in  the  darkness. 

The  wind  rose  and  fell.  It  had  now  a  differ- 
ent sound,  as  there  is  a  different  note  in  the 
ascending  and  decrescent  song  of  the  lark. 
It  was,  however,  still  confined  to  the  heights 
and  the  upland  moors. 

With  the  first  sunflood  there  is  something  of 
the  same  chemic  change  in  the  wind  as  there  is 
in  the  sea.  An  electric  tremor  goes  through  it. 
Its  impalpable  nerves  thrill :  its  invisible  pulse 
beats. 

Long  before  Nial,  in  the  deep  twilight  of  the 
forest,  saw  that  morning  had  come,  he  was 
aware  of  it  from  the  cry  of  the  wind,  as  it 
leaped  against  the  sun. 

He  stirred,  listening.  The  call  of  that  bodi- 
less voice  he  knew  and  loved  so  well  had  sud- 
denly grown  clearer.  It  was  as  though  the  in- 
visible Lute-player  who  shepherds  the  clouds 
with  his  primeval  music  had  breathed  a  high, 
resonant  note.  To  the  keen  ears  of  Nial  this 
was  enough.  He  knew  that  the  wind  had 
moved  from  the  south  to  the  north-west:  a 
thing  easy  to  tell  at  once  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  pines,  but  to  be  known  of  few  when  heard 
against  remote  heights  and  in  the  dark. 

The  dwarf  rose  and  began  to  pace  restlessly 

194 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

to  and  fro.  Once  or  twice  he  stood  still  and 
shook  himself;  then,  with  a  searching  but  un- 
expectant  glance  around  him,  resumed  his 
aimless  wandering. 

The  wind  reached  the  forest  before  the  first 
lances  of  the  sunlight  had  thrust  themselves 
through  the  umbrage  at  its  higher  end.     Nial 
heard  it  lifting  the  still  air  of  the  pine-glooms 
with  its  vast  wings,  and  beating  it  to  and  fro, 
sending  volleys  of  fragrant  breath  from  sway- 
ing tree-top  to  tree-top.     It  wandered  nearer 
and  nearer :  af*  first  overhead,  so  that  only  the 
summits  of  the  pines  swayed  southward,  but 
soon    it   came   leaping   and   blithely    laughing 
through  the  long  aisles  of  the  forest.    The  in- 
describable rumour  of  the  sunflood  followed. 
As  the  old  Celtic  poets  tell  us,  the  noise  of  the 
sunfire  on  the  waves  at  daybreak  is  audible 
for  those  who  have  ears  to  hear.    So  may  be 
heard  the  sudden  rush  and  sweep  of  the  sun- 
beams when  they  first  stream  upon  a  wood. 
The   boughs,    the    branches,   the    feathery   or 
plume-like  summits  of  the  trees  do  homage  at 
that  moment,  when  the  Gates  of  Wonder  open 
for  a  few  seconds  on  the  unceasing  miracle  of 
Creation.     The  leaves  quiver,  or  curl  upward, 
even  though  there  be  no  breath  of  air.     It  is 
then  that  crows,  rooks,  wood-doves,  and,  on 
the  heights,  the  hawks  and  eagles,  lean  their 

195 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

breasts  against  the  sunflood  and  soar  far  for- 
ward and  downward  on  wide-poised  motion- 
less wings :  a  long,  unswerving,  scythe-sweep, 
strange  in  its  silent  and  ordered  beauty,  to  be 
seen  similarly  at  no  other  time. 

The  sound  was  an  exultation  throughout 
the  forest.  Soon  the  invisible  presence  dwelt 
everywhere.  Every  branch  held  a  note  of 
music:  every  leaf  was  a  whisper.  There  was 
not  a  frond  of  bracken,  a  blade  of  grass,  that 
did  not  bend  listeningly.  The  windflowers  in 
the  mossiest  hollows  were  tremulous. 

When  the  sunbeams  came  dancing  and  leap- 
ing in  the  track  of  the  wind,  the  note  of 
exultation,  in  deepening,  became  more  indis- 
criminate. The  bleating  of  the  stags,  the  lowing 
of  the  distant  kye,  the  plaintive  crying  of 
the  ewes  and  lambs,  the  calls  and  songs  of  the 
birds,  the  myriad  indeterminate  voice  of 
morning,  blent  in  a  universal  rumour  of  joy. 

Nial  stood  listening  intently,  now  to  this 
sound,  now  to  that.  He  knew  the  forest, 
and  the  life  of  the  forest,  as  no  other  man 
could  do.  He,  too,  was  a  woodlander,  as 
much  as  the  deer,  or  the  shy  cushat,  or  the 
very  bracken. 

The  birds  that  flew  by  paid  no  heed  to  him. 
He  was  watching  a  young  fox  blinking  its 
yellow   eyes   from  under  a   hollow  mass   of 

196 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

roots,  when  a  roe  trotted  rapidly  close  by  him, 
her  hill-pool  eyes  alert,  her  long  neck  strained, 
her   nostrils   distended   and   quivering.      He 
turned,  but  she  did  not  swerve  nor  hasten.    Her 
fawn  followed.    It  stopped  almost  opposite  to 
Nial,  looked  at  him  curiously,  lifted  its  delicate 
forehead  alternately,   and   sniffed  with  swift 
sensitive  twitchings.     He  looked  quietly  into 
the  great  violet  eyes,  filled  with  a  wonderful 
living  amber   when   turned   against   the   sun. 
The   fawn   slowly  advanced   till   the   velvety 
warmth  of  its   lips   nibbled   playfully  at   the 
arm,  gently  extended  toward  it.     The  dwarf 
stroked    the    smooth    muzzle    and    the    long 
twitching    ears.       Suddenly,    with    an    elfish 
whisk,  the  fawn  sprang  to  one  side,  spun  with 
abrupt  sidelong  leaps  around  the  funny  two- 
legged   creature:   then,   finding  that   its   new 
playmate   was    so   perplexingly    staid,    leaped 
away  in  a  light  bounding  flight  in  pursuit  of 
its  dam,  who  had  halted  among  the  bracken, 
and    had    been    watching   curiously,    but    un- 
alarmedly. 

Strangely,  it  was  with  a  look  more  of  re- 
sentment than  of  pleasure  that  Nial  turned 
and  walked  slowly  toward  the  upper  glades. 
There  was  no  one  there  to  overhear  his 
muttered  words.  Perhaps  the  wood-doves 
that  watched  him  pass,  listened  unheedingly 

197 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

to  his  angry  exclamations — half  sobs,  half 
vague  outcries  against  the  bitterness  of  his 
fate  that  he,  Nial  the  Soulless,  was  shunned 
by  all  human  beings,  or  by  all  save  the  child 
Oona,  and  treated  as  though  he  were  a  wild 
thing  of  the  woods — and  that  even  the 
creatures  of  the  hillsides  and  the  forest-glades 
knew  him,  while  not  of  their  own  fellowship, 
to  be  no  human. 

These  thoughts  always  tortured  him.  His 
unspeakably  lonely  and  remote  life,  indeed, 
was  one  long  martyrdom.  Rightly  or  wrongly, 
he,  and  others,  had  ever  believed  he  was  a 
changeling,  a  soulless  man,  perhaps  the  off- 
spring of  demon  parentage.  Had  he  been 
blessed  with  the  mind-dark  he  might  have 
gone  through  his  span  of  life  as  blithely  as 
any  wildwood  creature.  Two  things  only, 
besides  his  human  form,  differentiated  him 
from  the  birds  and  the  beasts  he  loved  so  well, 
though  from  their  world,  too,  an  involuntary 
exile  for  ever :  one,  the  faculty  of  speech :  the 
other,  the  possession  of  a  reasoning,  if  a  re- 
stricted and  perverted  mind. 

How  innumerably  often  he  had  brooded 
over  the  fantastic,  and  to  him  part-maddening, 
part-terrifying,  and  wholly  obsessive  legend 
of  his  birth ! 

All  in  the  region  of  Iolair  knew  his  story: 

198 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

how  he  had  been  found  when  a  little  child, 
in  the  woods,  and  had  been  taken  care  of  by- 
Adam  Morrison,  the  minister:  how  when  yet 
a  boy,  a  cripple,  and  a  trial  to  his  foster- 
father  and  all  who  knew  him,  he  had  disap- 
peared with  vagrant  gypsies,  and  had  not 
been  heard  of  for  fifteen  years,  till  one  au- 
tumn he  was  seen  among  the  pines  in  the  for- 
est of  Iolair.  He  had  been  in  the  neighbour- 
hood for  weeks,  though  none  knew  of  it. 
During  that  ensuing  winter  he  was  fed  and 
sheltered  by  Torcall  Cameron,  or  by  Murdo 
the  shepherd,  or  by  Alan  Gilchrist  on  Torni- 
deon,  the  mountain  on  the  north  side  of 
Strath  Iolair.  For  the  rest,  he  lived  no  man 
knew  how,  and  slept  no  man  knew  where. 
He  was  an  outcast  and  homeless:  but  if  he 
lost  much,  much  also  he  gained.  He  knew 
the  living  world  as  few  could  even  approxi- 
mately know  it :  sight,  hearing,  smell,  each 
sense  was  intensified  in  him.  He  saw  and 
heard  and  was  aware  of  much  that  to  others 
was  non-existent  or  dubiously  obscure. 

But  the  real  mystery  of  his  life,  to  himself 
as  well  as  to  his  human  neighbours,  who  half- 
disowned  him,  was  in  the  reputed  fact  that 
he  was  the  child  of  the  Cailliach. 

A  year  before  Mr.  Adam  Morrison  had 
found  the  puny  wailing  child  close  to  the  tarn 

199 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  a  man  who  lived 
high  on  Sliabh-Geal,  the  mountain  that  leaned 
southward  from  the  shoulder  of  Iolair,  had 
fallen  under  the  spell  of  the  Cailliach,  the 
beansith  or  demon-woman.  No  one  knew 
much  about  him.  He  was  a  shepherd,  but 
none  had  heard  whence  he  came  or  of  what 
folk.  He  asked  none  to  cross  his  airidh.  But 
the  rumour  was  everywhere  held  that  Black 
Duncan — all  the  name  he  was  ever  known  by 
— was  a  changeling.  The  minister  was  wont 
to  disavow  this,  but  added  that  Duncan  cer- 
tainly lived  under  a  curse,  though  the  nature 
or  source  of  the  malediction  was  beyond  the 
ken  of  all  save  the  unfortunate  man  himself, 
if  indeed  even  he  knew  of  it. 

One  winter  the  Cailliach  was  seen  of  sev- 
eral women.  Her  tall  figure,  clad  in  a  yellow 
robe,  as  she  drove  her  herd  of  deer  to  the 
waterside,  was  unmistakable.  She  was  seen 
again  and  again.  The  following  summer,  as 
Torcall  Cameron  was  crossing  the  Gual,  the 
ridge  betwixt  Iolair  and  Sliabh-Geal,  he  heard 
a  strange  voice  singing  through  the  gloaming. 
Looking  about  him,  he  discerned  a  woman  sit- 
ting among  the  bracken,  and  milking  a  hind, 
the  while  she  sang  a  song  that  brought  a  mist 
about  his  eyes,  and  made  his  heart  throb.  By 
her  exceeding  stature,  and  the  yellow  plaid 

200 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

about  her,  as  well  as  by  the  unknown  words 
that  were  wedded  to  that  wild  song,  he  knew 
her  to  be  the  Cailliach.  He  fled,  lest  she 
should  turn  and  ban  him.  A  little  later  he 
saw  the  beansith  again.  It  was  a  long  way 
off,  but  he  recognised  her:  and  even  while  he 
watched,  she  turned  herself  into  the  guise  of 
a  grey  deer,  and  went  leaping  toward  the  high 
remote  sheiling  where  Black  Duncan  lived. 
That  autumn  Duncan  was  more  than  once 
heard  laughing  and  talking  in  shadowy  places, 
and  in  the  forest.  On  the  first  day  of  the 
equinox  his  body  was  found  in  the  tarn.  The 
face  had  an  awful  look  upon  it.  The  same 
afternoon  Mr.  Adam  Morrison,  going  to  the 
spot  to  verify  what  he  had  heard,  found  the 
miserable  little  waif  he  adopted  afterward. 
No  sooner  had  he  taken  it  in  his  arms  than  a 
large  grey  deer  sprang  from  a  covert  of 
bracken  and  leaped  into  the  forest  gloom. 
Despite  its  size  and  haste,  its  passage  through 
the  undergrowth  was  absolutely  soundless. 

The  thing  was  unmistakable.  The  Cailliach 
had  put  her  spell  upon  Black  Duncan.  When 
her  hour  had  come  upon  her,  she  had  stran- 
gled her  mortal  lover  and  thrown  his  body 
into  the  tarn.  Then  she  had  borne  her  doubly 
cursed  babe. 

All  who  heard  of  these  things  averred  that 

20 1 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

the  child  would  be  soulless.  Mr.  Morrison 
said  no:  that  he  would  give  it  Christian  bap- 
tism, and  rear  it  in  godly  ways :  and  that  God 
would  have  pity  upon  the  innocent.  The  old 
people  of  the  strath  shook  their  heads.  The 
minister  was  wise  in  the  Scriptures  and  in 
the  book-lore,  but  was  it  not  well  known  that 
he  knew  little  of  and  cared  less  for  their  treas- 
ured oral  traditions  and  legends  and  obscure 
ancestral  runes?  Was  it  likely  he  could  judge, 
when  he  barely  knew  who  or  what  the  Cail- 
liach  was?  Had  he  not  ever  preached  from 
his  pulpit  that  there  were  no  "  other  people  " 
at  all  ? 

The  good  man  was  wrong.  He  admitted  it, 
when,  three  years  later,  the  child  Nial — so 
called  by  Mr.  Morrison  in  memory  of  a  young 
brother  of  his  own,  and  because  he  had  re- 
fused to  give  the  foundling  the  pagan  desig- 
nation of  Nicor  the  Soulless — was  lost  one 
summer  gloaming.  When,  after  long  search- 
ing, the  truant  was  discovered,  the  child  was 
no  longer  the  same.  The  shepherd  who  had 
found  him  said  that,  earlier  in  the  evening, 
he  had  noticed  a  tall  woman  leading  a  child 
through  the  forest,  and  stopping  every  now 
and  again  by  some  tree-bole,  as  though  she 
listened  for  some  one  or  to  some  thing.  Later, 
when  he  was  on  the  quest  for  the  strayed  little 

202 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

one,  and  as  he  approached  the  spot  where  his 
search  was  rewarded,  his  dog  had  stopped, 
snarling,  and  refused  to  advance.  While  he 
wondered  at  this,  a  large  grey  deer  sprang 
out  of  the  bracken  and  disappeared  into  the 
forest.  As  soon  as  it  vanished  the  dog  re- 
covered from  its  sudden  terror,  and  ran  for- 
ward, and  was  soon  barking  over  the  body  of 
the  child. 

Before  this  misadventure  Nial  had  been 
what  Mr.  Morrison  himself  called  "  a  waefu' 
bairn."  Weak  and  ailing  from  the  first,  he 
had  grown  more  and  more  fretful :  and  his 
endless  crying  and  whining  had  been  a  sore 
trial  to  the  good  man  and  to  old  Jean  Macrae. 

But  after  the  finding  of  him  in  the  forest 
he  was  no  longer  the  same.  He  became 
strangely  silent.  Even  when  hungry,  or  when 
hurt  or  frightened,  he  made  no  sound.  He 
Mould  sit  for  hours  and  stare  vaguely  before 
him.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  be 
got  to  speak  at  all,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  minister's  persistency  he  would  have 
grown  dumb. 

The  questioning,  and  yet  remote,  look  in  his 
eyes  disconcerted  all  who  looked  therein.  Old 
Mary  Macbean,  the  birth-woman,  confirmed 
the  general  suspicion.  The  child  had  no  soul, 
she  said:  she  knew  the  signs.     The  Christian 

203 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

baptism  and  the  constant  prayers  and  heed  of 
the  minister  had  preserved  or  perhaps  won  a 
soul  to  it :  but  the  Cailliach  had  found  her  off- 
spring in  the  woods,  and  had  lured  the  soul 
from  the  body,  and  had  prisoned  it  in  some 
pine-tree  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Two  or 
three  years  passed,  and  Nial  grew  more  and 
more  deformed,  more  and  more  unchildlike. 
Silent,  morose,  he  was  never  content  save 
when  wandering  high  on  the  mountain-slopes, 
or  among  the  pines,  or  by  Iolair  Water  as  it 
came  swirling  down  its  steep  bouldered  chan- 
nels from  the  Linn  o'  Mairg.  In  one  thing 
alone  he  transcended  all  the  other  dwellers  in 
the  strath,  young  or  old.  He  knew  every 
flower  and  plant  and  tree,  every  bird,  every 
creature,  and  the  haunts  of  all  and  the  life  of 
all,  with  a  surety  of  knowledge  and  a  pro- 
found intimacy  that  at  once  astonished  the 
hill-folk  and  confirmed  them  in  their  belief 
concerning  him. 

Then  there  came  a  summer  when  he  was 
hardly  ever  seen  at  Mr.  Morrison's  house. 
He  lived  like  an  outcast,  and  was  seldom  met 
save  by  a  mountain  shepherd,  or  by  the  two 
highest  hill-dwellers,  the  widow  Anabal  Gil- 
christ on  Tornideon,  and  Torcall  Cameron  of 
Mam-Gorm  on  Wester  Iolair.  Fitting  com- 
pany,  it  was   said ;    for  Anabal   and   Torcall 

204 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

were  not  only,  voluntarily  isolated  from  the 
folk  of  the  strath,  and  held  themselves 
strangely  aloof,  but  were  at  bitter  feud  the 
one  with  the  other. 

That  autumn  a  band  of  gypsies  came  to  the 
strath.  Some  were  brown-skinned  and  of 
foreign  race;  others  were  of  northern  blood 
and  birth:  a  few  were  Celtic  waifs,  who  had 
the  Gaelic  as  their  familiar  speech.  When 
the  people  of  the  dust,  or  the  children  of  the 
wind,  as  the  Highlanders  call  these  vagrant 
folk — though  commonly  by  the  first  designa- 
tion— moved  away  again,  traceless  as  is  their 
wont,  they  took  Nial  with  them.  The  winter 
passed,  the  spring,  summer  came  again,  and 
with  the  waning  of  autumn  there  was  still  no 
sign  of  the  changeling.  Year  after  year  went 
by :  and  the  story  of  Nial,  or  Nicor  the  Soul- 
less, as  he  was  often  named,  became  vaguer 
and  vaguer.  It  was  nigh  upon  fifteen  years 
later  that  he  was  seen  once  more  in  the  strath. 
No  one  had  heard  of  his  return ;  no  one  knew 
of  it  except  perhaps  Torcall  Cameron  and  his 
daughter  Sorcha,  or  Anabal  Gilchrist  and  her 
son  Alan ;  when  one  day  Murdo,  Mam-Gorm's 
shepherd,  came  along  the  strath  with  the  news 
that,  as  he  strode  through  the  forest  at  dawn, 
he  had  descried  Nial — a  ragged,  fantastically 
deformed     dwarf,     aged     in     appearance    as 

205 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

though  he  were  one  of  "  the  other  people " 
who  lived  in  the  heart  of  the  hills.  He  had 
recognized  him  in  a  moment;  but  had  not 
spoken  with  him  because  when  he  saw  the 
creature  it  was  stealing  furtively  from  pine- 
bole  to  pine-bole,  and  sometimes  tapping  and 
listening  intently,  or  muttering. 

"  And  what  would  that  be  meaning?  "  asked 
every  one  to  whom  he  told  his  tale,  though 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  know  the  an- 
swer a  forehand. 

"  It  means  that  he  was  looking  for  his  soul 
— for  the  soul  that  the  Cailliach  won  out  of 
him  and  hid  for  ever  in  a  pine-tree,  where 
neither  he  nor  any  one  else  would  be  like  to 
find  it." 

"  Until  the  tree  falls,  by  the  hand  of  man, 
or  by  the  lightning  or  the  wind,"  some  one 
would  add:  but  at  this  Murdo  would  only 
shake  his  head,  and  say  that  the  beansith  had 
for  sure  chosen  a  tree  that  neither  wind  nor 
flame  could  easily  reach,  and  that  when,  after 
hundreds  of  years,  it  would  be  dying,  it  would 
die  from  within,  and  so  kill  the  soul  that 
wailed  and  wept  or  lay  spellbound  in  misery 
within. 

Thereafter  Nial  was  occasionally  seen. 
Weeks  went  by :  summer  passed,  and  autumn  : 
and  it  was  clear  that  he  had  come  back  to 

206 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

stay,  though  he  never  once  drew  near  the 
house  of  old  Mr.  Morrison,  nor  even  sought 
out  his  foster-father  anywhere,  nor  held  con- 
verse with  any  one  save  at  Mam-Gorm. 

He  might  have  been  dead  or  absent,  for  all 
the  hill-folk  knew,  had  it  not  been  for  Sorcha 
Cameron,  who  told  in  the  strath,  on  the  rare 
Sabbaths  when  she  came  down  from  Iolair, 
how  her  father  gave  occasional  shelter  and 
frequent  food  to  Nial :  and  for  the  confirm- 
ing of  this  by  Murdo  the  shepherd,  who  said 
that  the  dwarf  for  the  most  part  slept  in  the 
woods,  but  as  the  nights  grew  colder  had  be- 
gun to  take  haven  either  in  a  cave,  or  in  an 
old  hut  on  the  hillside,  or  at  Torcall  Cam- 
eron's sheiling. 

"  And  I  doubt  if  he  would  cross  the  airidh 
at  all,"  he  added,  "  were  it  not  for  that  little 
wild-fire  of  a  lass,  the  bit  girlie  Oona,  that 
Mam-Gorm  loves  wi'  all  his  heart  and  soul, 
an'  better  than  his  bonnie  Sorcha,  for  all  he 
leaves  her  to  flit  about  like  a  spunkie  owre  the 
feith.  For  Nial  will  speak  to  Oona  when  he'll 
not  even  look  at  any  one  else:  an'  the  lassie 
will  be  awa'  wi'  him,  an'  no  man  kens  the  way 
o't  or  the  whitheraway  o'  thae  twain." 

And  so  that  winter  went,  and  then  another 
spring,  until  the  coming  of  May  again:  and 
Nial  was  once  more  one  of  the  people  of  the 

207 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

strath,  though  hardly  ever  seen  in  the  valley 
itself,  except  by  the  Linn  o'  Mairg  or  by  the 
running  water,  and  then  only  in  the  dusk  of 
the  morning,  or  in  late  gloamings. 


II 


The  foreheads  of  the  hills  were  bathed  in 
light.  Sheer  above  all  rose  the  aureoled 
peaks  of  Ben  Iolair  and  Tornideon.  The  lyric 
rapture  of  the  morning  made  a  sound  of  re- 
joicing. The  bleating  of  the  sheep  was  more 
rapid  and  less  plaintive;  and  when  the  harsh 
screams  of  the  great  eagle,  that  had  its  eyrie 
far  above  where  the  mountain-shoulders  al- 
most touch,  came  echoing  down  the  slopes,  they 
were  so  mellowed  at  last  as  to  fall  through 
the  leagues  of  sunsea  in  sharp  cadences. 

Mists  veiled  all  the  slopes,  and  hid  the 
strath.  The  mountains  seemed  thus  to  be 
raimented  in  white  and  crowned  with  living 
gold.  On  the  heights  these  mists  moved  with 
furtive  undulations,  with  an  upward  wave 
which  ever  and  again  lifted  a  great  mass  of 
vapour  columnarly  toward  the  summits. 

Beneath,  they  lay  like  suspended  snow,  or 
hung  as  palls:  vast  draperies  of  unrevealed 
day. 

208 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

Even  though  the  sunflood  broke  into  these 
cohorts,  and  here  seemed  to  suck  with  thirsty 
flaming  tongues,  here  to  plunge  in  golden  bil- 
lows among  shallows  of  fading  shadow,  or 
here  with  a  giant  hand  withdrew,  rent,  swept 
away,  dissipated  the  ever  dissolving,  ever  re- 
forming battalions  of  rising  mist — yet,  as  the 
morning  advanced,  the  highland  was  still 
swathed. 

Sometimes  a  boulder,  at  a  vast  height, 
would  stand  disclosed.  The  wet  upon  it,  from 
granite  boss  and  yellow  lichen,  shimmered  as 
though  the  fairy-folk  who  weave  the  rain- 
bows were  there  at  work.  A  space  below 
would  give  way  to  the  sudden  leap  of  the 
hill-wind ;  and  with  a  rush  the  sunlight  would 
stream  forward.  Pine  after  pine  would  rear 
a  green  banner,  from  which  mist-veils  would 
float,  or  rise  and  sway  like  flags  of  a  march- 
ing army.  Then  the  ranks  would  close  in 
again.  Flying  columns  would  converge  from 
right  and  left;  the  pine-banners  would  vanish, 
as  though  in  the  smoke  of  battle:  a  mighty 
swaying  mass  would  sweep  upward,  absorb 
the  sunbeams  and  splinter  their  gleaming 
lances,  till  boulder  after  boulder  would  be 
captured  and  the  bastioned  heights  themselves 
be  environed  in  the  assault. 

From  the  narrow  loch  at  the  end  of  the 

209 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

ravine,  in  the  Pass  of  the  Eagles,  came  the 
clamour  of  wildfowl.  Now  here,  now  there, 
as  though  a  voice  swam  disembodied  in  that 
white  sea,  the  double  note  of  the  cuckoo  re- 
sounded. In  a  thick  sob,  the  echo  of  the  Linn 
o'  Mairg  came  heavily  at  intervals.  The  muf- 
fled noise  of  Mairg  Water  crawled  through 
the  caverns  of  the  mist. 

Though  the  two  mountain-buttresses  at  the 
head  of  the  pass  are  so  close  that  the  legend 
of  a  stag  having  taken  the  intervening  space 
at  a  bound  is  not  wholly  incredible,  it  was 
impossible  for  one  hid  in  the  mist  on  Maol- 
Gorm  of  Iolair  to  see  any  one  or  anything 
on  Maol-dubh  of  Tornideon.  But  through 
the  mist,  here  suffused  with  a  pale  golden 
light,  was  audible  on  both  spurs  the  bleat- 
ing of  travelling  sheep  and  the  barking  of 
a  dog,  with,  now  and  again,  the  lowing  of 
cows. 

Suddenly  a  voice  rang  out,  strong,  clear, 
and  blithe : 

"  Mo  ran  geal,  dileas, 
Dileas,  dileas. 
Mo  run  geal,  dileas 
Nach  till  thunall!" 

Upon  the  spring  of  the  last  word  came  back 
from  Iolair  a  voice  as  blithe  and  more  sweet, 

210 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

the  voice  of  a  woman,  with  the  lilt  of  a  bird  in 
it  and  all  the  joy  of  the  sunshine : 

"  /  go  where  the  sheep  go, 

With  the  sheep  are  my  feet: 
I  go  where  the  kye  go, 

Their  breath  is  so  sweet: 
O  lover  who  loves  me, 

Art  thou  half  so  fleet? 
Where  the  sheep  climb,  the  kye  go, 

There  shall  we  meet!" 

There  was  something  so  penetratingly  sweet 
and  joyous  in  the  song  that  it  stirred  every 
bird  on  the  hillside.  The  larks  rose  through 
the  mist  till  they  swam  into  the  sunflood ;  the 
Unties  and  shilfas  and  yellow-yites  sent 
thrilling  notes  from  gorse-bush  to  gorse-bush 
and  from  rowan  to  rowan.  In  the  birk-shaws, 
the  cries  of  the  merles  sounded  like  shrill 
flutes. 

To  and  fro  went  the  sweet  voices.  Now 
the  man's  on  Tornideon  would  ring  blithely, 
now  the  woman's  on  Iolair  respond. 

At  last,  as  the  cattle  moved  up  the  slopes, 
with  the  spreading  sheep  in  advance,  the  shep- 
herding voices  fell  further  apart.  Instinct  led 
the  kye  to  the  sunlight,  for  all  living  things 
have  their  joy  through  the  eyes. 

"Sorcha,  Sorcha,  Sorcha!"  came  ringing 

211 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

through  the  mist:  "  Sorcha-mo-ciatach-nio- 
nag!  " 

"  Tha,  Ailean-a-ghaolach !  "  came  back,  with 
a  ripple  of  laughter,  the  laughter  of  joy.1 

"  Ah  mo  cailin  geal,  mo  nighean  donn,  duit 
ciat  mhor !  " 

"  Duit  ciat,  no  runach !  "  2 

"  The  sheep  and  the  kye  don't  know  love, 
Sorcha,  or  they  would  stay  here  till  the  mists 
go,  and  then  we  would  see  each  other." 

"  Let  us  cry  deasiul,  and  turn  thrice  sun- 
ways  ! " 

"  Ay ;  and  meanwhile  the  beasts  won't  stand 
still !  That  evil  beast  of  a  bull,  Donncha-dhu, 
who  ought  to  be  called  Domnuill-dhu,  is  lead- 
ing the  way  over  the  shoulder  of  Maol-Gonn. 
I  must  go,  Sorcha-mo-ghraidh,  or  never  a 
sheep  will  I  find  again;  and  as  for  the  kye, 
they'll  go  smelling  the  four  winds.  Sorcha! 
Sorcha!     Can  you  hear?" 

Hear  came  back  in  a  sweet  falling  echo,  the 
more  remote  and  aerial  because  of  the  mist. 

'"Sorcha,  my  bonnie  lassie."  "Yes,  Alan,  my 
darling." 

2  "Ah,  my  fair  one,  my  dark-haired  lass,  joy  be 
on  you!  " —    "  And  joy  on  you,  my  loved-in-secret." 

Infra:  Domnuill-dubh  instead  of  Donncha-dubh : 
i.e.  "should  be  called  Black  Donald  instead  of  Black 
Duncan."  It  is  a  play  upon  words:  for  "Black 
Donald"  is  the  Highland  colloquialism  for  Satan. 

212 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

"  Come  down  to-night  after  the  milking,  and 
meet  me  at  the  Linn.  .  .  .  Sorcha!  I'm  going 
to  see  Mr.  Morrison  again !  " 

Tis  no  use,  Alan.     But  I'll  meet  you  at 
the  Linn  in  the  late  gloaming." 

"Sorcha!" 

"Alan!" 

Then,  fainter  and  fainter,  Sorcha!  .  .  . 
Alan!  And  at  last  no  response  came  when 
Alan  Gilchrist  cried,  with  a  prolonged  echo- 
ing call,  the  name  of  his  ghaolaichc,  his  heart's 
joy. 

Soon  thereafter  the  mists  began  to  disperse. 


Alan  Gilchrist  was  at  the  pool,  below  the 
Linn  o'  Mairg,  long  before  Sorcha  Cameron 
came  down  from  Mam-Gorm,  the  hill-farm 
on  Iolair,  by  the  circuitous  but  secluded  way 
through  the  pine-glades. 

For  an  hour  or  more  he  had  lain  there, 
dreaming.  The  first  green  breath  of  May 
was  sweet  upon  the  land:  already  a  warmth 
as  of  midsummer  was  in  the  air.  Pleas- 
ant it  was  to  lie  and  dream  by  the  running 
water. 

When  he  had  first  reached  the  Mairg 
Water,  after  his  fruitless  journey  to  Inverglas, 

213 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

the  village  of  Strath  Iolair,  he  had  thrown 
himself  down  among  the  fern,  in  the  shadow 
of  a  boulder  overlooking  the  Kelpie's  Pool. 
Angry  thoughts  were  in  his  mind,  because  of 
the  minister's  refusal  to  marry  Sorcha  and 
himself.  It  was  a  bitter  thing,  he  thought, 
and  unjust. 

For  that  noontide,  after  he  had  driven  the 
sheep  on  to  the  upper  pastures  upon  Torni- 
deon,  and  had  got  little  Davie  Niven,  of  Cla- 
chan-nan-Creag,  to  herd  the  sheep  for  him 
till  moonrise,  he  had  gone  down  by  his  home 
at  Ardoch-Beag,  itself  high  on  the  mountain- 
side— though  he  was  little  there  during  the 
summer-pasturing  on  the  hills — to  the  strath, 
and  so  by  the  road  to  Inverglas.  As  he  went 
through  the  village,  there  were  many  who 
looked  at  him  with  glad  eyes :  for  wherever 
he  w±nt  Alan  found  a  smile  of  welcome  for 
him,  partly  because  of  the  beauty  of  his  tall 
person  and  curly  yellow  hair,  which  made  the 
strath  women  call  him  Alan-aluinn,  Alan-fair- 
to-see,  but  more  perhaps  of  his  own  smile 
that  was  so  sweet  out  of  his  blue  eyes,  and 
for  the  grave  yet  winning  way  of  him.  His 
rival,  Duncan  Robertson,  spoke  of  him  con- 
temptuously as  "  the  man  for  women  and  chil- 
dren " ;  but,  as  others  besides  Duncan  Rob- 
ertson knew  well,  the  women's-man  and  the 

214 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

children's-man  could  also  be  the  best  man's- 
man  in  the  strath  when  occasion  required. 

This  early  afternoon,  however,  he  had  no 
wish  to  speak  with  any,  and  so  hurried  on, 
with  a  visit  only  to  old  Morag  Niven,  Davie 
the  herd-laddie's  grandmother.  The  small, 
douce,  wizened  old  woman  blessed  him  for 
what  he  brought  her,  and  insisted  on  telling 
his  fortune  again  by  the  lines  in  his  hands. 
Laughingly  he  assured  her  she  had  told  it  to 
him  so  often  that  he  was  beginning  not  to  be- 
lieve in  her  predictions  at  all. 

'  That  may  be,"  she  exclaimed,  half -pet- 
tishly :  "  but  it's  this  I'm  telling  you,  Alan 
Mac  Fergus,  and  what's  more,  it's  not  only 
the  '  vision  '  of  the  love  that's  coming  to  you, 
but  I've  had  the  '  sight '  on  the  lover  too !  " 

The  young  man  flushed,  but  answered  care- 
lessly: 

"  Good  for  you,  Muime :  but  sure  'tis  a 
risky  thing  to  be  seeing  too  much." 

The  old  woman  stared  keenly  at  him  for  a 
moment,  and  then  smiled. 

"  Well,  and  will  this,  then,  be  like  what  you 
have  seen  in  your  dreams,  if  ever  a  great 
oganach  like  you  dreams  at  all : 

"  'First:  She  is  beautiful  as  this  May  day. 

"Second:  She  is  tall  and  graceful  as  a 
young  pine,  and  moves  like  a  hind  upon  the 

215 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

hills,  an'  no  flower  sways  in  the  wind  more 
dainty-sweet  than  she. 

'  Third:  She  is  fair  of  face,  with  all  the 
soft  skin  of  her  like  new  milk.  But  her  hair 
is  dark,  like  the  woods  at  dusk,  and  fragrant 
as  they. 

"Fourth:  She  lives  at  a  mountain-farm,  and 
all  her  heart  is  in  a  man's  keeping,  and  all  her 
beauty  is  his  to  love,  and  she  is  the  tallest,  and 
strongest,  and  sweetest  lass  in  all  the  strath 
or  in  the  big  world  beyond,  and  as  beautiful 
as  Roscrana  that  was  wife  to  Fingal  of  old 
and  mother  of  Ossian  the  blind  bard — ay, 
good  as  Morna,  which  is  the  name  of  a 
woman  that  is  beloved  by  all,  and  fair-to-see 
as  Fiona,  which  is  the  name  given  of  old  to 
a  bonnie  maid,  and  lovely  as  Alona,  than 
whom  not  woman  could  be  lovelier. 

"Fifth:  And  the  man  she  loves  is  a  poor 
misguidit  wastrel  who  lives  on  a  hill  opposite 
to  her,  and  I'm  thinkin'  his  name  will  be  Alan 
too,  Alan  this  or  Alan  that. 

"  Sixth:  Tis  Himself  only,  praise  be  to  Him, 
who  knows  who  this  Morna-Fiona-Alona  may 
be:  but  in  a  dream  I  had,  I'm  thinkin'  her 
name  is  Sorcha. 

"And  Seventh"  (this  in  a  relapse  from 
Gaellic  into  the  Lowland  tongue):  "  I  may  be 
a  silly  auld  wife,  Alan  my  man,  but  I'm  na 

216 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

sae  blind  as  ta  fail  ta  see  through  a  split  poke, 
for  a'  yer  havers  and  blethers !  " 

With  a  shamefaced  laugh  Alan  told  her  she 
was  an  old  witch,  and  was  sheer  doited  at 
that !  Then,  suddenly  stooping  and  kissing 
her  grey  hair,  he  bade  her  good-bye,  and  went 
on  his  way. 

But  it  was  an  ill-faring.  Mr.  Morrison,  the 
tall,  dark-faced  minister,  gray  and  lank  as  an 
old  fox,  though  a  godly  man,  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  the  granting  of  his  request. 

"  No,  no,  Alan  Gilchrist,"  he  added  in  part- 
ing, and  in  a  not  unkindly  tone,  "  'tis  no  ill- 
will  I  am  bearing  you,  my  lad.  But  neither  I 
nor  any  true  minister  of  God  will  wed  you 
and  Sorcha  Cameron,  because  of  the  feud  be- 
tween Torcall  her  father  and  Anabal  your 
mother,  and  of  the  ban  laid  by  him  on  her, 
and  by  her  on  you." 

"  So  be  it,  Mr.  Morrison;  but  as  for  me,  I 
will  be  putting  up  with  no  banning  from  man 
or  woman — no,  not  I,  nor  Sorcha  either !  " 

'  That  is  a  wicked  thing  for  you  to  say. 
But  Sorcha  is  a  good  lass  if  you're  not  a  good 
lad,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  the  long  and  short  of 
it  is,  I  can't  and  won't  wed  you  and  her  .  .  . 
no,  not  though  your  mother  and  Sorcha's 
father  were  to  die,  and  that  I  avow  here  sol- 
emnly, to  the  stones  be  it  said." 

217 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

And  so  it  was  that  the  young  man  went 
away  wrathful  and  indignant.  Yet,  with 
every  mile  of  his  homeward  journey  he  cared 
less  and  less.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  to 
him  or  Sorcha?  Living  remote  upon  the  soli- 
tary hills,  and  rarely  seeing  the  people  of  the 
strath,  what  did  it  avail  whether  or  no  he  and 
she  were  "  blessed  "  by  Mr.  Morrison  ?  Well, 
he  had  done  what  he  could. 

He  knew  of  course,  of  the  heavy  weight  of 
a  parental  ban ;  how,  with  some,  it  was  a  com- 
mand as  sacred  and  inviolable  as  those  of  God. 
But  he  did  not  know  all  that  Mr.  Morrison 
knew  or  surmised :  wherein,  indeed,  was  the 
deeper  reason  of  the  refusal. 

'  The  child  Oona,  the  child  Oona,"  mut- 
tered the  minister  as  he  returned  to  his  house ; 
"  why  was  she  sent  by  Anabal,  as  soon  as 
might  be  after  birth,  to  Torcall  Cameron? 
And  why  was  he  stricken  blind,  he  there  alone 
on  Mam-Gorm,  with  Marsail,  his  wife,  long 
dead,  and  only  his  daughter,  Sorcha,  sweet 
lass,  beside  him:  stricken  of  God,  blind  and 
desolate  for  all  his  days  thereafter?  Alas,  too, 
what  of  the  doom  of  Fergus,  her  husband !  " 

But,  lying  by  the  running  water  of  Mairg, 
Alan,  at  last  oblivious  of  what  had  angered 
him  and  left  in  his  mind  a  vague  distress, 
pondered  other  and  dearer  things  than  these. 

218 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

His  heart  was  full  of  Sorcha.  Already,  as 
indeed  for  more  than  a  month  past,  there  was 
upon  him  that  trance  of  love  of  which  the 
old  Celtic  poets  speak.  Even  now  he  went 
daily  in  a  dream.  Malveen,  the  widow- 
mother  of  Davie  the  herd-laddie,  saw  him 
often  as  he  passed  to  and  fro  upon  the  hill- 
side, as  one  in  a  vision,  rapt,  with  shining  eyes. 
At  times,  too,  unknown  of  either,  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Alan  and  Sorcha  as  they  kept 
tryst  in  the  gloamings.  She  mothered  them 
with  the  longing  woman's  joy  in  love  that  had 
never  been  hers ;  they  were  her  dear  ones, 
though  rare  it  was  that  she  had  word  of  either. 
The  youth  of  youths,  the  maid  of  maids :  to 
her  at  last  something  more  than  real  and 
familiar,  remote  as  they  were  in  the  glam- 
our that  was  about  them  as  the  Mountain 
Lovers. 

It  was  in  the  late  gloaming,  as  she  had 
promised,  that  Sorcha  stole  soundlessly  from 
the  forest,  and  was  in  Alan's  arms  almost  be- 
fore he  knew  that  the  tryst  was  kept. 


Ill 


Volumes    of    grey-black    cloud    swept    up 
the  flanks  of  Iolair.    The  breath  of  the  south- 

219 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

west  wind  fell  moist  upon  the  land.  All 
the  wonderful  colour  of  the  highland  seemed 
absorbed,  as  though  a  sponge  had  been 
passed  over  it.  The  after-gloom  was  en- 
hanced by  the  silence  which  prevailed,  for 
the  thunderous  weight  in  the  air  hushed  the 
birds.  Even  the  corbies  sat  sullenly  on  stone 
dyke  or  solitary  quicken. 

Up  at  the  farm  of  Mam-Gorm  the  cloud- 
skirts  went  trailing  by,  sometimes  enveloping 
the  whole  airidh  in  a  clinging  obscurity,  and 
ever  and  again  lifting  high  above  it  as  though 
with  a  spasmodic  leap. 

A  few  yards  from  the  door  of  the  low 
whitewashed  house  Torcall  Cameron  stood, 
his  gaunt  figure,  with  its  mass  of  tangled  iron- 
grey  hair,  thrown  into  strong  relief.  Though 
he  grasped  a  heavy  oaken  staff,  his  head  was 
uncovered.  From  this,  Nial  inferred  that 
"  Mam-Gorm  "  was  not  going  far :  of  which 
he  was  glad,  for  there  was  no  one  in  the 
house,  wild  weather  was  nigh,  and  it  was  not 
a  time  for  a  blind  man  to  wander  among  the 
hills,  with  the  sheep-paths  damp  and  slippery 
and  often  obliterated  in  the  moist  peat. 

For,  though  Mam-Gorm  thought  he  was 
alone,  Nial  had  been  his  silent  companion  for 
an  hour  past.  Sorcha,  he  knew,  was  up  at 
the  high  sheiling  on  Iolair,  with  the  cows: 

220 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Oona,  he  imagined,  was  either  wandering 
after  the  sheep  with  Murdo  the  shepherd,  or 
was  in  the  forest  with  Nial,  or  might  be  flit- 
ting here  and  there  on  the  slopes  like  the  wild 
fawn  she  was.  As  for  Nial,  Torcall  Camer- 
on rarely  gave  him  a  thought.  The  dwarf 
was  like  a  faithful  collie :  to  be  fed,  and  given 
a  kindly  clap  now  and  then,  while  his  grati- 
tude and  devotion  were  taken  for  granted. 

This  rough,  stern,  blind,  and  stricken  giant 
was  a  divine  being  to  the  poor  child  of  the 
woods.  In  a  vague  way  Nial  thought  of 
Mam-Gord  as  God :  like  Mam-Gorm,  God 
could  provide,  could  at  rare  times  be  tender 
and  pitiful,  could  be  stern,  morose,  forbidding, 
terrible  in  wrath,  of  a  swift  avenging  spirit, 
could  strike,  bruise,  drive  forth,  kill. 

When  Sorcha  had  left  at  sunrise  she  knew 
that  her  father  had  the  gloom  upon  him.  In 
vain  she  looked  here  and  there  for  Oona.  The 
child  had  vanished.  The  platter  in  which  she 
had  her  porridge  was  found  under  a  bench 
near  the  rowan  at  the  side  of  the  house — 
where,  indeed,  Sorcha  had  looked  for  it,  as 
she  knew  Oona's  frequent  way  of  carrying 
her  food  out-of-door,  and  eating  it  in  a  hollow 
below  a  rock,  or  under  a  tree,  or  even  beneath 
the  bench,  like  a  little  wild  thing. 

She  had  turned,  after  she  had  called  Fionn 

221 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

and  Donn,  the  dogs,  and  gone  back  to  the 
house,  and  kissed  her  father.  His  blind  eyes 
were  upon  her,  though  it  was  not  through 
them  that  he  knew  she  was  troubled.  He  felt 
the  sweet  breath  of  her  upon  his  brow.  It  was 
like  the  first  day  of  spring  when  she  kissed 
him,  but  he  did  not  smile.  Before  she  went 
away  with  the  cows  she  found  Nial,  and  bade 
him  keep  watch  and  ward,  though  without 
letting  himself  be  seen. 

But  all  morning  and  noon  Torcall  Cameron 
had  sat  brooding  by  the  peats.  At  the  turn  of 
the  day  he  rose,  ate  some  of  the  bread  and 
cold  porridge  which,  with  a  jug  of  milk,  Sor- 
cha  had  set  on  the  table  beside  him ;  then  re- 
sumed his  listless  attitude  by  the  fire,  into  the 
heart  of  which  he  stared  with  his  blank,  un- 
wavering eyes. 

Nial  had  grown  tired,  as  a  collie  will  tire  if 
the  kye  drowse,  chewing  the  cud. 

He  had  wandered  far  from  the  airidh,  and 
passed  idly  through  the  pines.  No  more  of 
him  might  have  been  seen  that  day  had  he  not 
heard  Oona  singing  in  the  woods.  It  was  in 
vain  that  he  tried  to  come  upon  her.  Either 
she  had  caught  sight  of  him,  and  wilfully 
evaded  his  quest  of  her;  or  she  was  like  a 
birdeen  lured  by  the  dancing  sunrays.    At  the 

222 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

last,  he  thought  of  a  song  she  was  wont  to 
sing.  Across  the  midst  of  the  high  glade 
where  he  was,  lay  the  bole  of  a  half -fallen 
pine.  Along  this  he  clambered,  till  he  reached 
the  end  boughs,  and  so  out  upon  a  feathery- 
branch  which  swayed  up  and  down  with  his 
weight,  as  a  fir-spray  when  a  cushat  alights 

on  it: 

"  Wild  fawn,  wild  fawn, 
Hast  seen  the  Green  Lady? 
The  merles  are  singing, 
The  ferns  are  springing, 
The  little  leaves  whisper  from  dusk  to  dawn — 
Green  Lady  !    Green  Lady  ! 

The  little  leaves  whisper  from  dusk  to  dawn — 
Wild  fawn,  wild  fawn!'' 

It  was  a  harsh  and  wild  music,  that  song  of 
Oona  on  the  lips  of  Nial.  Brokenly,  too,  it 
came,  between  gasps  of  breath,  for,  as  the 
branch  swayed,  so  the  dwarf's  excitement 
grew,  and  he  seized  the  pine-needles  as 
though  they  were  the  mane  of  a  horse,  and  he 
were  riding  from  death  for  life: 

"  Wild  fawn,  wild  fawn, 
Hast  seen  the  Green  Lady? 
The  bird  in  the  nest, 
And  the  child  at  the  breast, 
They  open  wide  eyes  as  she  comes  down  the  dawn — 
The  bonnie  Green  Lady, 

Bird  and  child  make  a  whisper  of  music  at  dawn — 
Wild  fawn,  wild  fawn!" 

22^ 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Suddenly  he  ceased  his  fierce  ride  of  the 
branches.  Surely  that  clear  call  was  from  the 
throat  of  Oona?  Yes,  near  she  was,  though 
invisible.  Her  song  bubbled  from  her  as  sun- 
lit water  down  a  brae: 

"  Wild  fawn,  wild  fawn, 
Dost  thou  flee  the  Green  Lady? 
Her  wild  flowers  will  race  thee, 
Her  sunbeams  will  chase  thee, 

Her  laughter  is  singing  aloud  in  the  dawn — 

O  the  Green  Lady 

With  yellow  flowers  strewing  the  ways  of  the  dawn, 

Wild  fawn,  wild  fawn!" 

Even  the  hawk-keen  eye  of  Nial  failed  to 
discover  Oona.  Her  voice  came  from  a  co- 
vert of  bracken,  amid  which  rose  craggy 
mossed  boulders.  Doubtless,  the  girl  shel- 
tered behind  one  of  these. 

"Oona!" 

He  lay  still  now,  save  for  the  quivering  of 
his  eagerness.  The  branch  was  bent  by  his 
weight,  but  did  not  sway. 

"Oona!" 

The  rapid  skiff-skiff  of  a  hind  leaping 
through  the  fern,  through  the  green-glooms 
to  his  right,  caught  his  attention;  otherwise 
he  must  have  seen  the  bending  of  the 
bracken  in  the  hollow  beyond  him,  and  have 

224 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

heard  the  faint  rustle  as  a  little  cat-like  fig- 
ure swung  herself  up  into  a  low-branched 
rowan. 

"  Oona!    Oona!" 

Again  he  sang  in  his  strange,  half-scream- 
ing, falsetto  voice,  first  one,  then  another  of 
the  snatches  of  Gaelic  song  which  he  had 
learned  from  Oona,  but  without  response. 
One  of  his  sudden  fits  of  anger  seized  him, 
and  he  bit  savagely  at  the  supporting  branch. 
Then,  with  a  peal  of  mirthless  laughter,  he 
began  to  sway  wildly  to  and  fro  again,  so  that 
it  was  a  wonder  the  bough  did  not  break.  He 
was  swung  this  way  and  that,  as  an  apple  on 
an  outspread  branch.  With  short,  incoherent 
cries  he  rode  onward  through  the  air,  for  the 
moment  persuaded  by  his  fantasy  that  he  was 
one  of  those  wind-demons  of  whom  he  had 
heard  Murdo  the  shepherd  speak — pale  elves 
of  the  air  who  race  across  forest  and  moor  on 
flying  leaves  and  broken  branches,  or  are 
swept  screaming  in  the  wake  of  the  wind  as, 
with  outblown  mane  and  fierce  snorting  and 
neighing,  "  the  gray  stallion "  speeds  with 
mile-long  leaps. 

A  frenzy  of  insensate  wrath  shook  him,  so 
that  he  nearly  lost  his  grip.  Screaming,  he 
hurled  toward  Oona  the  curses  that  seemed 
to  him  most   dreadful  and  mysterious,   dark 

225 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

anathemas  of  old-time  learned  here  and  there 
during  his  far-wanderings. 

"Droch  cheann  ort,  Oonal  Droch  bhas 
ort!  Och,  ochan,  bas  dunach  ort!  Gu  ma 
h-olc  dhnit! — Gu  ma  h-olc  dhuit!"1 

A  faint  shuddering  cry  came  from  some- 
where close  at  hand.  In  a  moment  his  mad- 
ness went  from  him.  The  dumb  animal  soul 
felt  the  finger  of  God  touch  it.  All  wrath 
ceased,  and  a  great  pity  came,  and  longing, 
and  sorrow.  The  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes, 
and  he  lay  on  the  branch  sobbing  convulsively, 
so  that  he  was  like  to  fall. 

He  raised  his  head  at  last,  and  looked  eager- 
ly about  him.    "Oonal" 

Still  there  was  no  response.  His  gaze 
lanced  hither  and  thither  like  a  swallow.  If  a 
bee  crawled  from  a  foxglove  bell,  he  noted  it : 
if  a  spider  swung  on  a  glistening  thread,  he 
saw  her  as,  spinning,  she  sank.  If  a  wood- 
lark  stirred,  he  saw  the  shadow  of  its  wing  flit 
from  frond  to  frond.    But  of  Oona,  no  trace. 

"  Oona,  my  fairy !  Oona,  my  fawn !  I 
didn't  mean  it !  I  didn't  mean  it !  The  words 
were  in  my  throat.  I  couldn't  help  it.  Not  a 
word   was   true.     Oh,  my   grief,  my  grief! 

1  "  Bad  end  to  you !  Bad  death  to  you!  Ay,  and 
may  a  death  of  woe  be  on  you!  Evil  to  you,  evil 
to  you!" 

226 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

Oona  muirnean,  Oona  mo  muirnean — 
Ochone,  ochone,  thraisg  mo  chridhe — darling, 
darling,  oh,  'tis  my  heart  that  is  parched !  " 

But  the  child  was  obdurate.  She  made  no 
sign.  Nial  lay  moaning  on  the  branch.  The 
silence  was  unbroken,  save  by  the  sea-like 
whisper   of  the   wind   among   the   leaves. 

Suddenly  a  cushat  crooned.  Then  the  low 
croodling  sound  palpitated  upon  the  warm 
sunlit  air  that  flooded  in  among  the  pine- 
boughs. 

The  dwarf  listened.  The  gloom  in  his  eyes 
lifted.  He  knew  how  Oona  loved  his  one 
utterance  that  was  his  own,  which  he  had 
made  in  imitation  of  the  crooning  of  a  dove. 
Raising  his  head,  he  half  mumbled,  half  sang: 

"  Oona,  Oona,  mo  ghraidh, 
Oona,  Oona,  mo  ghraidh, 
Muirnean,  muirnean,  muirnean, 
Oona,  Oona,  mo  ghraidh!" 

Surely  she  would  respond :  ah,  yes,  that 
shrill  mocking  laugh,  elfin  sweet  in  his  ears! 
His  gaze  leaped  along  the  track  of  the  sound, 
and  then  at  last  he  espied  her,  crouching  low 
in  the  fork  of  a  rowan,  with  her  bare  legs  hid- 
den by  the  bole  and  only  the  sparkle  of  her 
eyes  glinting  from  behind  the  screen  of  leaves. 

"  Ah,"  he  cried  joyously,  "  I  see  you,  Oona, 

227 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

my  dove !  Ah,  my  little  white  dove,  your  little 
black  dove  sees  you !  " 

Oona  drew  herself  up,  leaped  to  a  lower 
branch,  and  sprang  to  the  ground. 

"  Cha'n  ann  de  mo  chuideachd  thu,  cha'n 
ann  de  mo  chuideachd  thu,  ars  an  colman," 
she  cried  mockingly :  "  You  are  not  of  my 
flock,  not  of  my  flock,  said  the  dove !  "  x 

And  with  that  she  spread  out  her  yellow 
hair  with  her  hands,  and  went  dancing  and 
leaping  through  the  bracken.  Onward  she 
flickered  like  a  sunbeam,  till  she  came  to  a 
rocky  declivity,  where  she  stopped  abruptly, 
and  stared  intently  into  the  hollow  beyond 
her. 

Turning,  she  looked  to  see  if  Nial  were 
watching  her,  and  when  she  saw  that  he  was 
still  on  the  swaying  pine-branch,  she  cried 
eagerly : 

"  Look,  Nial !    Look !  " 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  cried,  nearly  toppling 
from  the  bough  in  his  eagerness.  "  What  is  it, 
Oona?    What  is  it?" 

"  It  must  be  your  soul,  Nial !  It's  black 
and  wriggling  about,  in  case  you  catch  it !  Bi 
ealamh!    Bi  ealamh!    Be  quick,  be  quick!" 

1 A  pretty  and  common  onomatopoeic  saying, 
which  I  remember  first  hearing  as  a  lullaby,  when 
I  was  a  child  of  three  or  four. 

228 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Then,  with  a  spring,  she  leaped  out  of  sight. 
Nial  stared  after  her  for  a  moment,  caught  his 
breath  spasmodically,  crawled  swiftly  back  to 
the  tree,  half  clambered,  half  fell  to  the 
ground,  and  then  ran  like  a  leaping  goat  to- 
ward the  place  where  Oona  had  disappeared. 

When  he  reached  the  ridge  of  rock  which 
overhung  the  hollow  he  stopped,  trembling  like 
a  reed  in  a  wind-eddy.  At  last !  At  last ! 
Was  he  to  find  his  soul  at  last?  Black  or 
white,  fair  to  see  or  uncouth  as  himself,  what 
did  it  matter,  if  only  his  long  quest  were  now 
to  be  rewarded? 

Shaking  as  in  an  ague,  he  crawled  forward 
on  his  belly,  till  his  shaggy  head  projected 
over  the  ledge.  At  first  he  could  not  see,  for 
the  passion  in  his  heart  had  filmed  his  eyes. 

Then  at  last  he  stared  down  into  the  green- 
ness. He  could  see  nothing.  Not  a  wild  bee 
fumbled  among  the  moss,  not  an  ant  crawled 
along  a  spray  of  grass. 

What  did  it  mean? 

Was  it  possible  that  Oona  could  see  what  he 
could  not  ?  Here,  perhaps,  was  his  tragic 
sorrow:  that  his  soul  might  often  be  nigh,  but 
was  invisible  to  him. 

With  a  hoarse  exclamation,  half  scream, 
half  call,  he  cried  to  Oona  to  come  to  him. 
He  had  a  name  for  her  which  he  had  adopted 

229 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

from  Murdo  the  shepherd,  and  by  this  he 
called  her  now.  "  Bonnie-wee-lass,  bonnie- 
wee-lass,  come  to  me !  Oona,  muirnean,  Oona- 
mo-ghraidh,  come  to  your  poor  Nial!  Oh, 
my  soul,  my  soul,  it  will  be  lost!  Oona,  it 
will  be  lost!  Quick,  quick,  bonnie-wee- 
lass!" 

But  no  answer  came.  There  was  no  sign 
of  the  girl.  She  might  be  hiding  near,  or  be 
already  far  away,  perhaps  croodlin'  back  to 
the  doves  in  the  middle  of  the  forest,  or  chas- 
ing dragonflies  by  the  tarn,  or  out  upon  the 
hillside  flitting  from  rock  to  rock  like  a  butter- 
fly, or  singing  and  springing  from  gale-tuft  to 
heather-tussock,  as  a  green  Untie  in  the  sun- 
light. "  O  lassie,  lassie,  where  is  my  soul, 
where  is  my  soul?"  he  cried,  despairingly. 

Suddenly  his  own  curses  came  back  to  him, 
terrible  on  Oona's  unwitting  lips. 

"  Gu  ma  h-olc  dhuit,  Nial!  Gu  ma  h-olc 
dhuit!  A  bad  end  to  you  too,  Nial-without-a- 
soul,  and  I'll  be  telling  my  father,  I  will,  that 
you  laid  your  curse  on  me :  ay,  and  I  will  also 
be  telling  Sorcha  too,  and  Murdo,  and  Alan, 
and  the  dogs ;  and  I'll  whisper  it  to  the  wind, 
so  that  it'll  tell  the  Green  Lady  of  the  Hills  ; 
and  if  I  meet  your  soul  I'll  tell  it,  so  that  it 
may  be  ashamed  of  you,  and  go  and  drown 
itself  in  a  peat-hole. 

230 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

Nial  listened,  quivering.  His  eyes  strained 
as  a  crouching  hound's. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"  I  was  mad,  Oona.  Forgive  me.  I  see 
your  voice  coming  from  behind  that  rock. 
Will  you  not  return  and  show  me  my  soul  ?  " 

"  Look  in  the  hollow  of  the  stone  beneath 
you,  silly  Nial !  "  came  the  child's  voice  mock- 
ingly. 

Nial  stared ;  then,  descrying  nothing, 
leaped  into  the  hollow.  The  next  moment  he 
recoiled  with  a  look  of  horror. 

An  adder  lay  in  a  little  ferny  crevice  at 
the  base  of  the  rock.  Its  writhing  black  body 
was  trying  to  get  out  of  sight,  but  could  not. 
An  adder  was  the  one  thing  in  nature  that  the 
outcast  could  not  bear  to  look  at.  It  gave  him 
a  horror,  that  at  times  moved  him  to  frenzy, 
at  times  made  him  flee  as  a  man  accursed. 

Now  he  stood  as  one  fascinated.  If  the 
nathair  had  wriggled  toward  him  he  would 
have  stood  motionless. 

With  a  heavy  swaying  motion  of  his  head 
he  muttered : 

"Anam  nathrach, 
Anam  nathrach!"  x 

1  "Serpent-soul,  serpent-soul!" 

Pronounce  an'  urn  naa-rach.  Nathrach  is  the 
genitive  of  nathair  (pronounced  nha'er,  or  a'er 
nasally). 

231 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

But  when  the  adder  saw  a  crevice  else- 
where, that  promised  better,  and  swiftly  wrig- 
gled to  it,  Nial  saw  that  it  was  only  a  crawling 
beast,  this  and  nothing  more. 

With  a  dart  like  a  hawk  he  seized  it  by  the 
tail,  swung  it  round  his  head  while  he  shouted, 
"  Droch  spadadh  ortl  Droch  spadadh  ort! 
Bad  death  to  you!  Bad  death  to  you!"  and 
flung  it  against  the  face  of  the  rock,  so  that 
when  it  fell  across  a  bracken  it  lay  as  though 
stunned  or  dead. 

A  shout  of  elfish  laughter  came  from  Oona, 
who  had  sprung  from  her  covert,  and  watched 
Nial's  discomfiture  with  malicious  glee.  He 
turned  slowly.  His  corrugated  brows  were 
knitted  grotesquely,  as  with  dull  bewildered 
eyes  he  stared  in  the  direction  of  the  laughter. 
With  a  furtive  motion  he  kept  shifting  his 
weight  now  to  one  foot,  now  to  another,  oc- 
casionally dragging  one  backward  as  though 
pawing  the  ground.  His  tormentor  knew  well 
these  signs  of  perplexity,  and  her  light  tantal- 
izing glee  rippled  afresh  across  the  glade.  She 
stood  knee-deep  in  bracken,  with  her  right  hand 
clasping  the  black-and-silver  bough  of  a  birk :  a 
golden-green  hue  upon  her  from  beneath  from 
the  sunlit  fern ;  upon  her  from  above  a  flood 
of  yellow  sunshine,  so  that  she  stood  out  like 
a  human  flower,  a  new  daffodil  of  the  woods. 

232 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

The  wild,  rude,  misshapen  creature  who 
fronted  her  seemed  less  human  now  than  his 
wont,  with  that  bovine  stare,  that  uncouth 
guise,  his  over-large  and  heavy  head  slowly- 
swaying,  his  restless  stamping  and  scraping. 
Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  him  that  Oona  had 
not  been  in  earnest :  that  she  had  played  with, 
and  now  mocked  him.  His  eyes  grew  red,  as 
those  of  wild  swine  do  of  a  sudden,  or  as 
those  of  an  angry  badger.  A  spray  of  froth 
blew  from  his  hanging  lip.  His  long  horny 
fingers  opened  and  closed  like  sheathing  and 
unsheathing  claws. 

The  next  moment  there  stirred  in  his  brain 
the  thought  that  perhaps,  after  all,  Oona  was 
mocking  him  because  he  had  lost,  perhaps 
even  because  he,  he  himself,  had  destroyed 
his  long-sought  and  moment-agone  found 
soul. 

With  a  cry  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground, 
sobbing  convulsively.  He  lay  there  like  a 
stricken  beast,  a  quivering  ungainly  heap.  It 
was  no  unknowing  beast,  though,  that  moaned, 
over  and  over,  "My  soul — my  soul — my 
soul!"  Great  tears,  like  a  stag's,  ran  down 
his  furrowed  cheeks.  Oona  stood  amazed. 
Here  was  no  frenzy  of  blind  rage  such  as  she 
had  seen  at  times  in  her  companion;  but  pas- 
sionate grief:  sobs,  tears. 

233 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

The  child  shivered.  God  surely  has  the 
tendrils  of  a  child's  heart  close-clinging  to  his 
own.  Perhaps  the  wind  murmured  to  her, 
My  grief!  my  grief!  Perhaps  the  leaves 
whispered,  Sorrow,  O  sorrozv!  Perhaps  the 
blind  earth  breathed,  My  gloom! .  my  gloom! 
Perhaps  the  laughing  sunlight  sighed,  or  the 
wild  bees  crooned,  or  the  doves  moaned, 
Peace!  peace!  peace!  Oona's  eyes  grew  dim. 
A  trembling  was  upon  her,  like  that  of  a 
bird  in  the  hollow  of  the  hand.  Like  a  bird, 
too,  was  her  heart :  sure,  the  flutter  of  it  was 
an  eddy  of  joy  in  heaven. 

She  came  toward  Nial  with  swift,  noiseless 
step.  He  did  not  hear  her  approach;  or  if  his 
wildwood  ear  caught  a  rustle,  he  did  not  look 
up.  The  first  he  knew  of  her  was  the  stealing 
of  a  small  arm  round  his  neck :  then  the  pres- 
sure of  a  warm  body  against  his  side :  then  a 
wisp  of  fragrant  yellow  hair  tangled  with  his 
coarse,  shaggy  fell,  a  soft  cheek  laid  against 
his,  a  hand  like  a  little  white  hovering  bird 
caressed  his  face.  Sweetest  of  all,  the  whis- 
per that  stole  into  his  dark  brain  as  moonlight : 
"  Nial,  darling  Nial! " 

His  sobs  ceased.  Only  his  breath  came 
quick  and  hard.  His  whole  body  panted, 
quivered  still. 

"  Forgive  me,  Nial !  dear,  good  Nial !  I  did 

234 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

not  mean  to  hurt  you  so.  I  was  angry  because 
of  your  words.  But  I — I — didn't  really  mean 
that  that  was  your  soul.  Nial,  Nial,  I  didn't 
see  your  soul  at  all !  " 

Slowly  he  lifted  his  wet  inflamed  face:  his 
eyes  agleam  through  the  tangled  locks  that  fell 
over  his  brows. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  it,  Oona  ?  " 

He  could  just  hear  the  whispered  No.  A 
deep  sigh  passed  her  ears,  and  she  pressed 
closer  to  his  sorrow. 

"  Oona,  my  fawn,  do  you  think  you'll 
ever  see  it?  Do  you  think  I'll  find  it  some 
day?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Nial !     Yes — yes — yes !  " 

"  And  you  will  help  your  poor  ugly  Nial  to 
—to— find  it?" 

"  Sure,  it  is  helping  you  I  will  be,  with  all 
my  heart,  Nial-a-ghraidh." 

He  stooped  his  head  over  hers,  lightly 
shoved  her  back,  and  kissed  her  sunshine-hair. 
She  raised  an  arm  and  pulled  his  face  to  hers, 
and  kissed  him  gently. 

A  faint  smile,  a  glimmer  of  sunlight  on  a 
wet,  dishevelled  road,  came  over  his  face. 

Oona  sat  back,  relieved,  but  with  question- 
ing eyes. 

"Are  you  sure  you  have  no  soul,  Nial? 
Not  even  a   small  dark  one  that   will  grow 

235 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

some  day,  and  be  beautiful,  just  as  you  will, 
when — when — you  die  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,  birdeen.  Ask  Mam-Gorm,  ask 
Sorcha,  or  Alan,  or  Murdo,  or  any  of  the 
people  down  yonder.  They  know.  And  / 
know,  when  I  look  in  the  tarn,  or  in  the  pool 
below  the  Linn  o'  Mairg,  or  in  smooth  water 
anywhere:  ay,  and  when  the  deer  come  to 
me,  or  the  sheep  do  not  stir  out  of  my  way,  or 
the  kye  come  close  and  breathe  on  me  kindly. 
No  bee  will  sting  me,  and  the  dragonflies,  that 
even  you  can't  catch,  rest  sometimes,  as  the 
moths  do,  on  my  head  or  arm." 

Oona  kneeled,  and  bade  the  dwarf  do  like- 
wise. Then  she  told  him  that  his  evil  might 
be  because  of  a  rosad  upon  him,  the  spell  of 
the  Cailliach :  and  that  she  knew  a  sian  might 
ease  him.  With  closed  eyes  and  clasped  hands 
she  repeated  slowly: 

"  An  ainm  an  Athar,  a  Mhic, 
'S  an  Spioraid  Naoimhl 
Paidir  a  h'aon, 
Paidir  a  dha, 
Paidir  a  tri, 
Paidir  a  ceithir, 
Paidir  a  coig, 
Paidir  a  sea, 
Paidir  a  seachd; 

'S  neart  nan  seachd  padirean  a'  sgaoileadh  do 
Cholair  air  na  clachan  glas  ud  thall/" 
236 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father, 
The  Son, 

And  the  Holy  Ghost: 
By  one  prayer, 
By  two  prayers, 
By  three  prayers, 
By  four  prayers, 
By  five  prayers, 
By  six  prayers, 
By  seven  prayers; 

And  may  the  strength  of  the  seven  prayers 
Cast  out  the  ill  that  is  in  you 
Upon  the  grey  stones  over  there!"  i 

Long  and  earnestly  she  watched  to  see  if 
the  incantation  would  effect  the  miracle.  Nial 
trembled,  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  no  evil  in  you,  Nial,"  she 
whispered ;  "  so  now  I  will  pray  to  Himself 
for  you,  and  you  repeat  what  I  say,  and  shut 
your  eyes  and  clasp  your  hands  just  as  I  do." 

The  soulless  man  and  the  child  knelt  side 
by  side  among  the  fern.  The  light  lay  all 
about  them  as  a  benediction.  The  rising  wind, 
with  a  wet  sough  in  it,  came  along  the  pines 
like  an  intoning  anthem.  Around  them  the 
bee  hummed  unwitting ;  in  a  tree  beyond  them 
a  cushat  crooned  and  crooned. 

Oona's  voice  came  low  and  sweet  as  the 
hidden  dove's : 

1  Paidir  is  literally  a  Pater:  i.  e.,  a  Paternoster, 
"Our  Father." 

237 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  O  Father, 

That  is  the  Father  of  the  father  of  Sorcha  and  me, 
I  pray  that  you  will  give  Nial  a  soul." 

Silence.     Then  a  hoarse,  sobbing  voice : 
"  I  pray  that  you  will  give  Nial  a  soul!" 
Then  Oona  again :  and,  again,  Nial : 

"1  pray  that  Nial  may  find  his  soul  soon!" 

''I  pray  that  Nial  may  find  his  soul  soon!" 

"I  pray  that  it  will  be  a  good  soul!" 

"  I  pray  that  it  will  be  a  good  soul!" 

"/  pray  that  it  may  have  yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes!" 
' '  I  pray  that  it  may  have  yellow  hair  and  blue 
eyes!" 

"  I  pray  that  father  and  Sorcha  and  Alan  and  Murdo, 
And  that  Donn  and  Fionn,  the  collies,  and  the  kye, 
And  the  sheep,  and — and — everything — 
Will  love  Nial!" 
"That  everything  will  love  Nial!" 

"  And  that  Nial  will  go  to  Heaven  too!" 

"And  that  Nial  will  go  to  Heaven  too!" 

"  And  this  is  the  prayer  of  Oona, 
The  daughter  of  Torcall  Cameron 
Who  lives  at  Mam-Gorm  on  Iolair, 
An  ainm  anAthar,  a  Mhic,  's  an  Spioraid  Naoimh!" 
"An   ainm    an   Athar,    a    Mhic,  's   an   Spioraid 
Naoimh!" 

Oona  opened  her  eyes,  looked  earnestly  at 
Nial,  leant  forward  and  kissed  him. 

238 


The  Mountain   Lovers 

"  Now,  Nial,  rise,  and  turn  sunways,  and 
cry  Deasiul." 

The  dwarf  did  as  she  bade :  then,  with  a 
happy  laugh,  she  slipped  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Let  us  go  back  now.    The  rain  is  coming." 

And  so,  as  the  glooms  of  storm  came  rap- 
idly over  the  mountain,  the  two  moved,  silent 
and  happy,  through  the  sighing  glades  of  the 
forest. 


Lowering  skies,  with  the  floating  odour  of 
coming  rain,  already  dulled  the  hill-land.  A 
raven,  flying  athwart  Iolair,  looked  larger  than 
its  wont.  Its  occasional  croak  fell  heavily  as 
though  from  ledge  to  ledge  of  weighty  air. 
The  wood-doves  which  flew  back  toward  the 
forest  winged  their  way  at  a  lower  level  than 
usual,  the  clamour  of  their  pinions  beating  the 
atmosphere  as  with  oars :  on  the  moorland  the 
lapwings  rose  and  fell  incessantly  with  wail- 
ing cries.  The  scattered  kye  lowed  uneasily, 
or  stood  below  solitary  rowans  or  wild-guins, 
easing  their  fly-tormented  flanks  with  their 
swishing  tails.  On  the  farther  slopes,  the 
querulous  lambs  bleated :  everywhere  the  in- 
cessant calling  of  the  ewes  made  a  mournful 
rumour.  The  wind  moved  with  a  heavy  lift, 
here  rising,  here  falling,  anon  whirling  upon 

239 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

itself,  so  that  all  the  fern  and  undergrowth  in 
the  corries  bent  one  way,  or,  for  a  league,  the 
spires  of  the  heather  whitened. 

High  and  low,  the  innumerous  hum  of  in- 
sects vibrated  on  the  air.  Thus  may  the  hum 
of  the  wheeling  world  be  heard  of  Keithoir, 
who  dreams  in  the  hollow  of  a  green  hill  un- 
known of  man :  or  of  the  ancient  goddess  Or- 
chil, who,  blind  and  dumb,  works  in  silence 
at  the  heart  of  Earth  at  her  loom  Change, 
with  the  thridding  shuttles  Life  and  Death: 
or  of  Manannan,  who  sleeps  under  the  green 
wave,  hearing  only  the  sigh  of  the  past,  the 
moan  of  the  passing,  the  rune  of  what  is  to 
come. 

Before  Oona  and  Nial  drew  close  to  the 
hill  farm,  a  shrill  sustained  cry,  not  unlike 
that  of  the  bird  called  the  oyster  catcher,  came 
along  the  slopes.  Oona  knew  at  once  it  was 
Sorcha's  summons  for  her  to  help  with  the 
cows.  With  a  whispered  word  to  her  com- 
rade she  sped  away  by  a  sheep-path  that 
wound  over  against  Maol-Gorm.  Nial  slowly 
advanced  to  the  green  hillock  of  Cnoc-na- 
shee.  He  had  just  flung  himself  wearily  on 
the  grassy  slope,  when  he  saw  Torcall  Cam- 
eron stoop  and  issue  from  his  low  doorway. 

Mam-Gorm  faced  the  way  of  the  wind, 
sniffed  the  air  with  sensitive  nostrils,  and  let 

240 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

his  blind  eyes  feel  the  balm  of  the  damp. 
Then  he  turned,  and  returned  to  his  seat  by 
the  fire.  Nial  watched  for  an  hour.  The 
wind  had  a  steady  sough  in  it,  and  the  clouds 
were  lower,  darker,  more  voluminously  vast 
and  swift  when  Cameron  came  forth  again. 

It  was  this  time  that  he  had  his  staff  in  his 
hand,  though  no  cap  covered  his  tangled  iron- 
grey  hair. 

Nial  hoped  he  was  right  in  believing  that 
Mam-Gorm  had  come  out  merely  to  breathe 
the  caller  air:  for  the  dwarf  feared  the  re- 
proach of  Sorcha  if  he  let  the  blind  man  wan- 
der along  the  perilous  moorland,  with  wind 
and  rain  moving  like  ravenous  hounds  adown 
the  heights. 

When,  however,  he  realised  that  Torcall 
Cameron  was  bent  upon  making  his  way  to 
some  distant  spot,  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
check  him,  or  even  to  make  known  his  pres- 
ence. There  was  a  thundercloud  on  the  man's 
face,  one  that  to  Nial  was  far  more  sombre 
and  terrifying  than  any  overhead.  When, 
with  slow,  hesitating  steps,  the  blind  man 
passed  close  to  Cnoc-na-shee,  he  stopped  for  a 
few  moments.  Doubtless  he  was  listening  to 
the  wind  going  through  the  pines,  with  a  noise 
as  of  the  flowing  tide  against  shingly  beaches  : 

241 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

or,  perhaps,  to  the  scattered  lowing  and  bleat- 
ing of  his  sheep  and  cows.  But  Nial  feared 
that,  in  some  strange  way,  he  had  perceived 
him.  He  trembled,  for  he  knew  that  "  the 
father  "  was  in  one  of  his  dark  moods.  Deep 
down  in  his  heart  he  dreaded  the  gaze  of  those 
sightless  eyes  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world:  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  was  con- 
vinced that  they  saw,  more  awfully  and 
searchingly  because  through  a  veil. 

In  his  anxiety  not  to  betray  his  presence,  he 
ground  his  foot  firmer  into  a  heathy  hollow, 
for  he  had  slightly  slipped  when  Cameron 
stopped.  A  pebble  was  dislodged,  and  made 
a  slight  noise. 

The  blind  man  lifted  his  head,  startled. 

"  Is  any  one  there  ?  " 

No  answer.  The  wind  sighed  along  the 
grass. 

"  Oona,  are  you  there  ?    Nial,  is  that  you  ?  " 

Silence,  but  for  a  faint  wind-rustle  in  the 
bracken. 

"  Sst !    Down,  Luath,  Fior !  " 

But  no  collie  barked  or  whined  in  response. 

"  Well,  peace  to  your  soul,  and  go  hence." 

But  at  last  Torcall  was  convinced  he  was 
alone,  for  he  heard  the  note  of  a  yellow-ham- 
mer, as  it  fed  its  mate,  close  by.  With  a  sigh 
he  moved  on.     As  he  passed  within  a   few 

242 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

yards  of  Nial,  the  dwarf  heard  him  mutter- 
ing disconnected  phrases :  "  Ochan-achone, 
tha  m'  anam  bruite  am  chom !"..."  ma 
tha  sin  an  dan !"..."  ma  shineas  Dia  mo 
laithean !  "  1 

He  waited  till  Cameron  was  some  way 
ahead.  Then  with  light  step,  stealthy  move- 
ment, and  furtive  sidelong  glances,  he  fol- 
lowed. 

The  first  thin  rain  slanted  along  the  wind. 
The  blind  man  paid  no  heed.  Indeed,  he  now 
walked  swiftly  and  firmly  along  a  sheep-path, 
as  though  he  were  familiar  with  the  way,  or 
had  altogether  forgotten  his  infirmity. 

Out  upon  a  bleak  stretch  of  moor  on  one  of 
the  higher  slopes  of  Maol-Donn  stood  a  cairn. 
It  was  here,  so  rumour  went,  though  none 
knew  for  sure,  that  Torcall's  wife,  Marsail, 
lay  buried.  It  was  known  that  she  had  per- 
ished in  a  snowstorm,  and  that  he  had  insisted 
on  her  burial  where  she  was  found :  but  when 
the  minister  and  the  people  came  for  her  body 
they  were  told  that  she  was  already  in  the 
mools,  and  that  even  now  the  stones  of  her 
cairn  were  upon  her. 

Beside  it  was  a  tall  flat  slab  of  rock.  It 
may  have  been  part  of  a  Pictish  or  Druidic 

'•"Alas,  my  soul  is  oppressed  within  me  !  "  .  .  .  "if 
it  be  ordained  ! "  .  .  .  "if  God  prolong  my  days ! " 

243 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

temple,  or  its  resemblance  to  a  sacred  stone 
may  have  been  accidental.  It  stood  erect,  one- 
third  imbedded  in  the  hillside. 

To  these  Torcall  Cameron  now  made  his 
way.  At  the  cairn  he  did  not  stop,  neither  did 
he  drop  a  stone  or  even  a  pebble  upon  it. 
When  he  reached  the  great  rock,  he  leaned 
against  it,  and  with  folded  arms  stared  sight- 
lessly across  the  strath  to  Tornideon,  whose 
vast  bulk  rose  sombre  in  the  deepening  gloom. 

The  wail  of  the  wind  momently  increased. 
The  rocks  sweated,  even  where  there  was  no 
rain  falling. 

Suddenly,  over  the  high  crest  to  the  west, 
the  Druim-nan-Damh  or  Ridge  of  the  Stags, 
there  came  a  heavy  rolling  sound  as  though 
a  mass  of  boulders  had  fallen  down  the  far 
side  of  Iolair. 

This  first  muttering  of  the  thunder  aroused 
the  dreamer.  He  started,  checked  some  ex- 
clamation, and  then,  having  stooped  and 
groped  till  he  found  what  he  wanted,  threw  a 
small   stone  on   Marsail's  cairn. 

Nial  drew  closer.  A  flash  of  lightning  had 
frightened  him.  Thunder  and  lightning  were 
to  him  as  direct  agents  of  a  vengeful  and  irate 
Power  as  they  were  to  the  priests  and 
prophets  of  old. 

The  first  loud  crash  filled  the  air.    Then  en- 

244 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

sued  a  splitting  and  rending  as  of  a  granite 
mountain,  from  whose  depths  vomited  a  pro- 
longed howling  and  roaring  as  of  monstrous 
beasts.  The  outcast  crawled  alongside  the  tall 
slab  against  which  the  man  leaned,  and  gripped 
a  corner  with  his  hand. 

When,  his  white  face  glimmering  in  the 
mirk,  he  looked  up  at  Mam-Gorm,  he  shivered 
with  a  new  dread. 

The  blind  man  stood  erect,  with  arms  up- 
raised and  hands  outspread.  His  face  was  lit 
as  though  a  fire  burned  in  his  brain.  Nial 
imagined  that  the  dead  eyes  gleamed,  as  he 
had  seen  toadstools  gleam  in  a  dark  cave :  a 
dull  phosphorescent  light,  horrible  to  look 
upon. 

Again  a  wuthering  roar,  followed  by  a 
scythelike  whirlwind,  with  the  sound  of  rain- 
torrents  flooding  the  high  corries  and  wash- 
ing the  windward  precipices  of  Ben  Iolair. 
Nial  was  about  to  speak,  when  he  crouched 
back  at  the  volley  of  words  shouted  savagely 
over  his  head : 

"  Oh,  my  Lord  God,  strike !  Oh,  let  Death 
be  upon  me !  Sorrow  Thou  hast  given  me,  and 
I  have  not  rebelled :  grief  Thou  hast  made  my 
daily  portion,  and  I  have  not  rebuked  Thee: 
but  now  that  Thou  hast  made  my  day  into  a 
charnel-house  and  my  bed  into  a  grave,  now 

245 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

that  Thou  hast  brought  before  my  blind  eyes 
what  no  eyes  may  see  and  live,  now  that  Thou 
hast  set  the  Dead  as  a  watch  upon  the  living — 
I  cry  to  Thee,  Enough !  " 

Nial  shivered  with  awe  and  terror.  He 
saw  that  a  frenzy  was  upon  the  man  whom  he 
both  loved  and  feared. 

There  was  silence  for  many  seconds.  A 
greenish  streak  of  flame  shot  across  the  moun- 
tain, intolerably  vivid.  A  sound  as  of  mirth- 
less laughter  was  drowned  in  an  avalanche- 
roar  overhead.  Out  of  the  tumult,  later,  came 
wild  fragments  of  human  shouting: 

"  Let  there  be  a  duel  between  us  then  .  .  . 
ay,  Marsail,  you  may  weep;  ay,  Fergus,  you 
may  leap  out  of  your  shroud  to  be  soul  to  soul 
with  me  .  .  .  what  do  I  care  for  the  hounds 
of  the  night?  .  .  .  Call  off  thy  hounds,  O 
Hunter !  ...  Be  the  day  between  us,  and  the 
night,  O  God;  and  the  two  noons,  and  the 
darkness  of  the  coming  and  the  darkness  of 
the  going ;  and  the  blood  of  the  living,  and  the 
corruption  of  the  dead ;  and  the  earth  and  the 
sea;  and  the  stars  beneath  the  world,  and  the 
stars  above  the  world ;  and  the  friend  of  man 
that  is  Time,  and  Thy  friend  that  is  Eternity 
...  for  I  will  not,  I  will  not,  I  will  not  .  .  . 
no,  though  I  perish  for  ever  and  for  ever  " 
.  .  .  {and  at  last,  with  a  scream)  ...    "Go 

246 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Thy  ways,  O  God.  .  .  .  Leave  me,  if  Thou 
wilt  not  slay!  ...  I  will  not!  I  will  not! 
I  will  not !  " 

When  the  next  flash  and  thunderblast  had 
hurtled  and  gone,  Nial  thought  that  Death 
had  indeed  come.  Then  he  heard  a  low 
whisper : 

"  What  is  it  that  I  hear?  Do  the  dead  stir? 
Marsail  .  .  .  Marsail  ...  or  ...  or  ...  is 
it  you,  Fergus,  son  of  Fergus,  son  of  Ian?  " 

Sick  with  fear,  Nial  sprang  to  his  feet, 
seized  one  of  the  fallen  hands  in  his  own,  and 
tried  to  lead  Mam-Gorm  away. 

The  blind  man  shook  as  a  tuft  of  canna  in 
a  wind-eddy ;  white,  too,  as  the  canna,  was  his 
face. 

His  lips  moved  convulsively.  At  last, 
hoarse,  choking,  sobbing  sounds  came  forth, 
and  from  these  grew  three  or  four  words : 

"  Is — it— you,  Marsail  ?  " 

Nial  shrank  appalled,  but  could  not  with- 
draw his  hands. 

"Is — it — you,  Fergus  Gilchrist?" 

Struggling  to  escape,  he  merely  added  to 
the  paralysing  awe  which  held  his  captor. 

"  Who  are  you — what  are  you  ?  Are  you 
the  thing  of  the  grave,  the  black  guide  I  have 
heard  of?" 

With  a  sudden  jerk  the  dwarf  freed  him- 

247 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

self.     The  next  moment  he  bounded   aside, 
then,  without  a  glance  behind  him,  fled. 

Cameron  sprang  forward,  but  when  he 
found  that  he  had  missed  his  grip  he  drew  up 
again,  and  stood  listening  intently.  If  it  was 
a  spirit,  it  made  a  noise  of  running  like  a 
human:  if  it  was  a  creature  of  the  grave,  it 
hurried  back  to  no  hollow  near  by:  if  it  was 
Black  Donald  himself,  Sir  Diabhol  had  fled, 
affrighted ! 

Ah,  the  Cailliach!  He  had  not  thought  of 
her!  It  might  well  be  that  the  demon-woman 
had  tried  to  snare  him.  If  so,  what,  who,  had 
saved  him? 

Dazed  and  sick  he  stood  for  a  moment,  be- 
cause of  a  crash  of  a  thunderbolt  against  a 
near  height.  The  granite  splintered  like  glass. 
In  his  mouth  his  palate  shrank:  his  nerves 
strained,  quivering. 

Who,  what,  hurled  that  thunderbolt?  Was 
it  God?    Was  He  answering  his  wild  prayer? 

If  it  were  of  God,  why  had  it  not  stricken 
him?  Hark!  A  scream  far  off!  Had  the 
leaping  Cailliach  been  slain  by  the  lightning, 
as  a  flying  man  by  the  spear  of  his  pursuer? 
Had  God  given  him  these  things  as  signs? 
These  voices,  that  awful  touch  as  of  human 
hands  ? 

He   bowed   his   head.     Tears   scalded   the 

248 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

burning  lids  of  his  blind  eyes.  Suddenly  he 
sank  to  his  knees,  and  with  outstretched  arms 
repeated  an  ancient  rune  of  his  fathers,  the 
Cry  to  Age,  the  Rann-an-h'  Aoise: 

O  thou  that  on  the  hills  and  wastes  of  Night  art 

Shepherd, 
Whose  folds  are  flameless  moons  and  icy  planets, 
Whose  darkling  way  is  gloomed  with  ancient  sor- 
rows: 
Whose  breath  lies  white  as  snow  upon  the  olden, 
Whose  sigh  it  is  that  furrows  breasts  grown  milk- 
less, 
Whose  weariness  is  in  the  loins  of  man 
And  is  the  barren  stillness  of  the  woman : 
O  thou  whom  all  would  'scape  and  all  must  meet, 
Thou  that  the  Shadow  art  of  Youth-Eternal, 
The  gloom  that  is  the  hush'd  air  of  the  Grave, 
The  sigh  that  is  between  last  parted  love, 
The  light  for  aye  withdrawing  from  weary  eyes, 
The  tide  from  stricken  hearts  for  ever  ebbing! 
O  thou,  the  Elder  Brother  whom  none  loveth, 
Whom  all  men  hail  with  reverence  or  mocking, 
Who  broodeth  on  the  peaks  of  herbless  summits, 
Yet  dreamest  in  the  eyes  of  babes  and  children : 
Thou,  Shadow  of  the  Heart,  the  Brain,  the  Life, 
Who  art  that  dusk  What  is  that  is  already  Has  been, 
To  thee  this  rune  of  the-fathers-to-the-sons, 
And  of  the  sons  to  the  sons,  and  mothers  to  new 

mothers — 
To  thee  who  art  Aois, 
To  thee  who  art  Age! 

Breathe  thy  frosty  breath  upon  my  hair,  for  I  am 
weary ; 

249 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

Lay  thy  frozen  hand   upon  my  bones  that  they 

support  not, 
Put  thy  chill  upon  the  blood  that  it  sustain  not, 
Place  the  crown  of  thy  fulfilling  on  my  forehead, 
Throw  the  silence  of  thy  spirit  on  my  spirit, 
Lay  the  balm  and  benediction  of  thy  mercy 
On  the  brain-throb  and  the  heart-pulse  and  the  life- 
spring — 
For  thy  child  that  bows  his  head  is  weary, 
For  thy  child  that  bows  his  head  is  weary. 
I  the  shadow  am  that  seeks  the  Darkness. 
Age,    that   hath   the   face  of   Night   unstarr'd   and 

moonless, 
Age  that  doth  extinguish  star  and  planet, 
Moon  and  sun  and  all  the  fiery  worlds, 
Give  me  now  thy  darkness  and  thy  silence! 

It  was  there,  lying  with  his  face  in  the  wet 
heather,  that  Sorcha  found  her  father.  She 
had  seen  Nial  flying  as  for  his  life,  and,  from 
behind  the  boulder  where  she  was  sheltering  a 
lamb,  had  sprung  forward  to  stop  him.  But 
all  the  elf -man  saw  was  a  woman's  figure — 
perhaps  the  Cailliach  who  had  already  stolen 
his  soul  and  now  wanted  his  body  in  this 
night  of  storm!  With  a  scream  he  turned 
'  aside  and  dashed  onward  in  his  wild,  ungainly 
flight. 

Sorcha's  great  eyes  filled  with  amazement, 
then  with  dread.  What  did  it  mean?  Her 
bosom  heaved,  the  swell  of  the  sudden  tide  at 
her  heart.     More  beautiful  than  any  Fairy- 

250 


The    Mountain   Lovers 

Woman  that  ever  herded  the  deer  or  sang  a 
fatal  song,  she  stood  with  one  hand  at  her 
breast,  the  colour  ebbing  from  her  face,  her 
slim  firm  body  poised  as  an  intent  stag. 

Slowly  her  gaze  travelled  back  the  way  Nial 
had  come.  In  the  gloom  of  storm  she  could 
descry  nothing,  no  one.  If  the  Cailliach  were 
there,  she  was  now  invisible. 

Again  an  almost  intolerably  vivid  flash  of 
blue-green  light,  out  of  a  dazzling  flame  that 
seemed  to  burst  from  the  hills.  The  hollow 
roar  and  crash  that  followed  dazed  her,  but  in 
that  moment's  illumination  she  had  seen  the 
cairn  and  the  stannin'  stane,  and,  beside  them, 
the  figure  of  her  father,  apparently  stricken 
and  fallen  prone. 

Without  a  thought  of  fear,  either  of  the 
storm  or  the  evil  spirit  that  might  be  roam- 
ing the  hillside,  she  half  ran,  half  clambered 
upward  till  she  came  upon  her  father  lying 
low.  In  a  moment  she  was  by  his  side,  and 
had  lifted  his  head,  drying  his  face  with  her 
dress,  and  kissing  him,  with  a  crooning  as  of  a 
mother  over  her  child. 

He  was  not  dead.  For  that  she  was  thank- 
ful. She  could  feel  the  throb  of  his  heart,  and 
in  his  throat  there  was  a  sound  as  of  sobbing 
breath. 

"  Father,  father,"  she  cried ;  then,  whisper- 

251 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

ing  in  his  ear,  "  Father  of  me,  father  of  me, 
oh,  dear  to  my  heart,  all  is  well !  I  am  Sor- 
cha!  There  is  no  evil  thing  here.  Come 
home !    Come  home !  " 

She  felt  the  shiver  that  went  over  him. 
Then  he  sought  with  his  hand,  and  clasped 
that  which  went  to  meet  it. 

"What  is  it,  Sorcha?    Where  am  I?" 

"  Ah,  father,  dear  father,  you  are  well  now : 
arise :  I  will  lead  you  home !  " 

"Home?" 

"  Yes ;  do  you  not  hear  the  wind  and  the 
rain?    Ah—h—l" 

Again  a  bursting  roar  overhead,  and  the 
whole  of  Iolair  a  beacon  of  flame  whereon 
every  boulder  and  crag  stood  out  clear  as  in 
brilliant  moonlight. 

"  I  remember !  I  remember !  "  Cameron 
cried,  as  he  staggered  to  his  feet.  "  Was  it 
you,  Sorcha,  who  took  my  hands  a  little  ago, 
when — when — I  was  speaking  to — to — Mar- 
sail?  .  .  ." 

The  girl  recoiled  in  horror.  Marsail  .  .  . 
her  long-dead  mother ! 

"  What  is  this  thing  that  you  say,  O  Tor- 
call  MacDiarmid  ? "  she  whispered,  awe- 
struck. 

'  It  is  nothing.  I  was  dreaming.  Sorcha,  I 
came    here    dreaming    of    past    days.    Your 

252 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

mother  lies  below  the  cairn  there.  I  was  talk- 
ing to  her  to  ease  my  pain.  I  thought  she 
might  hear.  And  while  I  spoke,  I  felt  hands 
clasp  mine,  and  try  to  pull  me  down — below 
the  cairn,  it  may  be !  And  then  I  fell  into  a 
horror,  and  the  darkness  came  over  my  mind. 
And,  suddenly,  I  knew  that  God  spared  me, 
though  I  had  cursed  Him,  and  I  fell  on  my 
knees  and  cried  the  rune  of  Age,  that  is  a 
rune  of  old,  forgotten  among  our  people,  and 
therewith  I  was  heard,  and  my  strength  knew 
the  Breath,  and  I  fell  as  you  found  me." 

'  But,  father,  father,  you  are  not  in  the 
dark  way — you  are  not  old,  for  all  the  grey  of 
your  hair — you  are  not  going  to  die,  and  leave 
your  Sorcha  and  Oona  ?  " 

"  Would  you  have  me  live,  nic-chridhe?" 

Seldom  did  he  speak  to  her  thus,  though 
often  he  called  Oona  his  heart's  dearie  and 
other  loving  names.  The  tears  came  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  yes,  father !  I  would  have  you  live. 
I  love  you." 

"  My  age  is  come  upon  me.    I  am  weary." 

"  Not  yet :  not  yet !  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  the  wisdom  of  old — 
s'mairg  a  dh'iarradh  an  aoise,  Woe  to  him  that 
desireth  extreme  old  age!" 

"  Come  with  me,  dear !    Come !    The  rain  is 

253 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

leaping  at  us.    Come !    You  are  cold  and  wet 
and  shivering !  " 

And  so,  at  last,  silent  and  weary,  Torcall 
Cameron  toiled  back  against  the  tempest,  and 
neither  he  nor  Sorcha  saw,  as  they  passed  the 
byre,  a  squat,  misshapen  figure  crouching  be- 
side Odhar,  the  calving  cow. 

It  was  a  night  for  the  peat-glow.  Outside, 
the  darkness  was  intense.  The  thunderstorm 
had  rolled  heavily  away,  though  the  far  hills 
still  held  an  echo.  But  a  great  wind  had 
arisen,  and  blew  across 'the  heights  with  a 
sound  like  the  trumpets  of  a  mighty  host. 
From  the  forest  came  a  vast  tumultuous  sigh, 
as  of  the  moaning  sea. 

In  the  low  room,  where  there  was  no  light 
save  that  of  the  peat-fire,  upon  which  flamed 
some  dry  pine-logs,  Torcall  Cameron  sat 
brooding  in  the  ingle.  Opposite  to  him  was 
Sorcha  on  a  milking-stool,  now  stirring  the 
porridge  in  the  pot  at  one  side  of  the  fire, 
now  with  clasped  hands  staring  into  the 
flames,  dreaming  of  Alan,  or  of  what  she  had 
that  gloaming  heard  from  her  father  and  from 
Nial. 

At  dark  she  had  gone  to  the  byre,  and, 
having  found  the  dwarf,  had  soothed  and  en- 
treated him,  so  that  his  dark  mood  passed, 

254 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

and  he  followed  her,  in  furtive  silence,  into 
the  room,  where,  unknowing  of  his  advent, 
Mam-Gorm  sat. 

Only  once  had  the  blind  man  spoken  since 
he  had  seated  himself  once  again  before  the 
peats.  It  was  to  ask  Sorcha  if  she  thought 
that  the  person  who  took  his  hands  by  the 
cairn  could  have  been  Nial.  An  imploring 
glance  from  the  outcast  made  her  refrain 
from  betrayal  of  his  presence:  of  which  she 
was  glad  when,  having  replied  that  she  was 
certain  it  was  he,  for  she  had  seen  him  run- 
ning down  the  hillside  as  though  terrified  by 
the  lightning,  her  father  broke  into  a  mut- 
tered savage  curse. 

At  last  Mam-Gorm  slept.  The  fireglow 
calmed  the  wrought  face.  The  tangled  iron- 
grey  hair  fell  over  his  forehead.  He  looked 
strangely  old ;  could  it  be,  thought  Sorcha, 
that  his  prayer  had  been  heard,  and  that  al- 
ready the  Shepherd  had  found  this  weary 
sheep  ?  And  yet,  so  strong  was  he,  so  tall  and 
strong ;  strong  as  an  aged  pine  on  a  headland ! 
Surely  his  ill  was  of  the  stricken  heart  only? 

When  his  breathing  came  soft  and  even, 
she  rose,  lightly  kissed  his  grey  hair,  with  a 
tear  for  the  pity  of  the  old  that  is  in  the  lov- 
ing heart  of  the  young,  and  then  went  out  to 
the  byre  to  see  if  Odhar  was  warm,  and  under 

255 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

no  spell  nor  evil,  though  her  calf  was  not  yet 
due. 

As  she  went  out  Oona  slipped  in.  She  was 
dry  and  flushed,  for  at  the  coming  of  the 
storm  she  had  crept  into  the  hayloft,  and  had 
there  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  rush  of  the 
rain  and  the  endless  rising  and  falling  sough 
of  the  wind.  Nial  made  a  sign  of  silence,  so 
she  came  forward  soundlessly.  For  a  time 
she  stared  intently  at  the  sleeper,  then,  seeing 
that  Nial,  who  had  crawled  to  her  side,  would 
not  look  at  her  but  sat  blinking  at  the  flame, 
she  began  to  croon  a  song. 

The  sweet  Gaelic  words  fell  from  her  lips 
like  soft  rain  in  a  wood.  The  room  was  filled 
with  a  low  chime  of  music.  Old  strange 
chants  or  fugitive  songs,  one  after  the  other, 
came  fragmentarily  to  her  lips ;  and  the  plain- 
tive air  of  them  was  sometimes  her  own, 
sometimes  what  she  had  heard  others  sing, 
and  once  or  twice  old-world  melodies,  more 
ancient  than  the  oldest  pine-trees,  older  even 
than  the  "  fallen  stones  "  in  the  place  on  the 
south  slope  of  Iolair  called  Teampull-nan- 
Anait,  where  a  thousand  years  ago  none 
passed  who  could  tell  who  Anait  was,  or 
where  her  altar  had  been  or  who  were  her 
worshippers. 

Once   the   door   opened.      Sorcha   glanced 

256 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

through  the  flame-lit  dusk:  a  smile  on  her 
face,  sweet  as  the  dream  in  her  beautiful 
eyes.  The  father  asleep ;  Oona  crooning  be- 
fore the  peats;  Nial,  quiet  hound  of  Oona, 
with  dark  eyes  staring  up  at  her  from  where 
he  lay  on  the  floor :  she  need  not  fear  to  leave, 
and  go  out  to  the  roofed  hay-room,  where 
Alan's  arms  yearned  for  her,  where  his  heart 
beat  for  her,  where  his  lips  were  warm  in  the 
dark,  where  the  dear  whisper  of  his  voice 
was  the  echo  of  the  white  song  that  clapped  its 
hands  rejoicing  in  the  sunbower  in  the  hollow 
of  her  heart. 


IV 


But,  from  that  day,  the  gloom  lay  more 
heavily  on  Torcall  Cameron  even  than  of 
yore.  Oona  herself  could  hardly  win  speech 
from  him.  During  the  week  of  fine  weather 
that  followed  the  thunderstorm  she  was  rarely 
at  Mam-Gorm.  The  forest  held  her  with  its 
spell,  though  often  she  was  on  the  heights 
with  Murdo  when  he  led  the  kye  to  the  hill- 
pastures  at  sunrise,  or  with  Sorcha  at  the 
milking  of  the  cows  at  sundown. 

During  the  noons,  she  sought — alone  or 
with  Nial — that  white  merle  of  which  Sorcha 
had   told   her  once,   which  had   haunted   her 

257 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

waking  and  sleeping  dreams  ever  since.  Who- 
ever heard  its  song  would  be  in  fairyland  for 
a  thousand  years,  though  the  joy  of  that 
would  be  no  more  than  a  year  and  a  day  of 
mortal  time.  Whoever  saw  it  might  follow  its 
flight,  and  for  the  seer  of  the  white  merle 
there  would  open  wonder  after  wonder.  The 
green  spirits  of  the  trees  would  come  forth, 
chanting  low  their  murmurous  rhyme :  the 
souls  of  the  flowers  would  steal  hand-in-hand, 
from  leaf -covert  to  leaf-covert,  or  dance  in 
the  golden  light  of  the  sunbeams;  the  singing 
of  the  birds,  the  crooning  of  the  cushats,  the 
hum  of  the  wild-bee  and  the  wood-wasp,  the 
voices  of  all  living  things  from  the  low  bleat 
of  the  fawn  to  the  singing  stir  of  the  gnats 
by  the  pool  or  in  the  hollows — all  would  be- 
come clear  as  human  speech,  and  would  be 
sweet  to  hear. 

Long,  long  ago,  that  white  merle  had  flown 
out  of  Eden.  Its  song  has  been  in  the  world 
ever  since,  though  few  there  are  who  hear  it, 
knowing  it  for  what  it  is,  and  none  who  has 
seen  the  flash  of  its  white  wings  through  the 
green-gloom  of  the  living  wood — the  sun- 
splashed,  rain-drenched,  mist-girt,  storm-beat 
wood  of  human  life. 

But  Oona  watched  for  the  white  shimmer, 
for  the  magic  song.     She  looked  everywhere 

258 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

save  where  the  white  merle  nested — in  the 
fair  soul  of  her;  listened  everywhere  save 
where  its  secret  song  was — in  the  music  of 
her  young  life  in  heart  and  brain.  Ah,  the 
sweet  song  of  it ! 

As  for  Nial,  he  crouched  for  hours  at  a 
time,  lest  by  noon  or  dusk  he  might  hear  or 
see  the  magic  bird.  If  only  he  could  catch  but 
a  glimpse  of  the  white  merle,  sure  he  would 
see  his  lost  soul  somewhere  among  the  green 
spirits  who,  Oona  said,  would  be  seen  com- 
ing out  of  the  trees  which  were  their  bodies. 
Neither  did  he  know  that  there  was  one  place 
where  it  rested  often  on  a  spray  in  its  sing- 
ing flight,  a  fugitive  Hope ;  or  that  notes  of 
its  unreachable  song  pierced  the  gloom  of  his 
bitter  pain. 

Sorcha  alone,  only  Sorcha,  started  at  times 
as  though  she  heard  it :  and  in  her  dreams, 
and  in  the  dreams  of  Alan,  it  sang,  a  white 
wonder  on  a  golden  bough,  in  the  moonlight. 

But  for  Torcall  Cameron  in  his  sorrow 
there  was  no  white  merle.  Oona  asked  him 
once  what  its  first  notes  were  like. 

"Bron!  bron!  mo  bron!"  he  answered; 
"  mo  bron,  mo  bron,  ochone,  arone !  Doil- 
ghios  orm'sa,  tha  mo  chridhe  briste!  "  x 

'"Grief,  my  grief!  O  grief,  my  grief,  ochone, 
arone!     Sorrow  upon  me,  my  heart  is  broken!  " 

259 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

Almost  every  afternoon  he  went  out  alone 
upon  the  heights,  though  never  again  by  the 
cairn  where  Marsail  lay.  Sometimes  he 
would  sit  on  a  boulder,  brooding  dark;  at 
times  Sorcha  or  Oona  would  descry  him 
kneeling  in  the  heather,  often  with  fierce 
gestures,  as  he  prayed  wild  prayers — frag- 
ments of  which  the  wind  sometimes  bore 
to  the  listener,  who  no  more  durst  ap- 
proach. 

Ever  since  that  day  by  the  cairn  Nial  had 
kept  out  of  his  way.  Not  without  reason; 
for  once,  as  the  dwarf  lay  sleeping  in  the 
noon-heat,  under  the  shadow  of  a  rock,  he 
was  suddenly  seized  in  an  iron  grip. 

It  was  in  vain  for  him  to  struggle.  What 
he  saw  in  the  face  of  his  captor  gave  him 
the  courage  of  desperation. 

"  Let  me  go,  Mam-Gorm ! "  he  muttered 
in  a  voice  hoarse  with  passion.  "  Let  me  go. 
I  am  Nial  of  the  woods." 

"  Ay,  Nial  of  the  woods !  Spawn  of  the 
Evil  One !  Think  you  I  don't  know  you  to 
be  the  child  of  the  Cailliach?  You  talk  of 
your  lost  soul,  poor  fool !  Your  lost  soul, 
you  that  never  had  and  never  will  have  a 
soul !  " 

"  Let  me  go,  Mam-Gorm !  " 
'  Let  you  go !  and  where  will  I  be  letting 

260 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

you  go  to,  you  that  are  no  man,  but  only  an 
elfish  creature  of  the  woods?  Was  it  you 
that  came  out  of  the  grave  that  day — that 
day  by  the  cairn  ?  " 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Mam-Gorm  ?  " 

"What  will  I  do?  What  will  I  do?  By 
the  blood  on  my  soul,  I  will  drive  a  stake 
through  your  body,  so  that  no  more  shall  you 
haunt  the  living !  " 

"  Let  me  go,  Torcall  Cameron,  in  the  name 
of  God!" 

The  blind  man  relaxed  his  grip  a  little, 
which  had  become  like  a  vice.  The  words 
brought  a  shock  to  his  heart.  He  had  never 
heard  Nial  call  him  by  his  name  before :  and 
if  he  were  of  demon  birth,  how  could  he  say 
"  an  ainm  an  Athar  "? 

"  Let  me  go,  Torcall  Cameron,  or  I  will 
put  a  rosad  upon  you,  a  spell  that  no  sian 
of  Oona  or  Sorcha  will  save  you  from." 

'  You,  you  thing  of  the  woods,  you  put  a 
spell  upon  me:  you  who  had  my  bread, 
and  had  my  fire,  and  who  would  have  died 
but  for  me !  Ay,  and  you  would  put  a  spell 
upon  me !  And  what  would  that  rosad  be 
like,  now,  from  you  that  have  never  consorted 
with  men,  and  have  learned  nothing  save 
from  the  lassie  Oona?" 

'  When    I    was    with    the    children    of   the 

261 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

wind,"  Nial  began,  to  be  interrupted  at  once 
by  his  captor,  who  muttered,  "  Ah,  the  gyp- 
sies I  forgot " — and  grew  grave,  as  with  the 
shadow  of  a  fear. 

"  When  I  was  with  the  children  of  the 
wind,  Mam-Gorm,  I  learned  some  things 
that  even  you  may  not  know.  And  in  the 
woods  I  have  learned  that  which  no  man 
knows.  And  if  I  put  the  evil  upon  you,  you 
will  die  slow,  year  by  year,  from  the  brain 
that  is  behind  your  eyes  to  the  last  bones  of 
your  feet !  " 

Cameron  shuddered. 

'  It  may  be  so.  God  forgive  me,  any  way. 
You  have  done  me  no  harm.  But  look  you, 
Nial  of  the  woods,  keep  out  of  my  way  when 
I  wander  abroad — and  let  me  hear  no  more 
of  your  spells.  There :  you  are  free  to  go. 
Yet  even  now  that  my  hand  is  off  you,  I  long 
to  make  sure  that  you  are  not  the  thing  that 
came  out  of  the  cairn." 

With  a  dark,  vengeful  face  the  elf-man 
moved  out  of  reach;  then  he  whispered  in 
a  slow,  meaning  way: 

"  I  am  going,  for  I  see  Marsail  coming 
down  the  hill  from  the  cairn,  and  with  her 
is  a  man " 

"  A  man  !  A  man  !  "  shouted  Cameron, 
trembling  as  in  an  ague.    "  Who  is  the  man  ? 

262 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

What  is  he  like?  Give  me  your  hand,  Nial, 
give  me  your  hand,  for  the  love  of  God !  " 

"  He  is  tall  and  fair,  and  dripping  wet, 
with  his  hair  lank  about  his  head,  with  the 
water  in  it." 

Ah,  he  had  his  revenge  now !  Mam-Gorm 
gave  a  low  moan,  and  sank  to  his  knees. 
There    he    cowered,    muttering    incoherently. 

"  Nial,"  he  whispered  hoarsely  at  last, 
"  Nial,  Nial,  do  they  come  this  way — Marsail 
and — and — the  man  who  is  dripping  wet  ?  " 

The  dwarf  raised  his  head  and  stared 
about  him.  He  was  tempted  to  make  his  late 
tormentor  suffer;  but  the  brute  heart  of  the 
soulless  man  was  melted  because  of  the  agony 
of  one  of  the  lords  of  life. 

"  I  see  no  one  now,  Mam-Gorm." 

"  No  one — no  one?" 

"  No." 

"  Are  you  sure,  Nial  ?  " 

"  I   am  sure." 

"  Give  me  your  hand." 

'You  will   do  me  no  hurt?" 

"  On  my  soul !  " 

Nial  slowly  advanced,  took  the  outstretched 
hand  in  his,  and  helped  the  trembling  man  to 
rise. 

'  Nial,  tell  me  this  thing.  Have  you  seen 
these — these — these  tzvo  before  this?" 

263 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

"  I  have  never  seen  the  woman." 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  it  was  Marsail, 
who  is  dead  years  and  years  and  years 
agone  ?  " 

"  Is  it  forgetting  you  are  that  when  I  was 
a  child  I  saw  her  body,  on  the  day  of  the 
snow  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  wherein  the  questioner 
brooded  darkly.  At  last,  in  a  low  strained 
voice,  he  asked: 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  the  man  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  know  who  he  was  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Can  you  guess  who  he  was  ?  " 

Silence. 

"Speak,  Nial!" 

Silence. 

"  Speak,  Nial,  whom  I  have  fathered." 

"  He  was  dripping  wet,  as  though — as 
though " 

"Well?" 

"As  though  he  had  fallen  into  the  Linn  o' 
Mairg." 

A  savage  spasm  came  into  Camer- 
on's face.  The  nails  of  his  fingers  drew 
blood  in  the  prisoned  hand,  which  was 
snatched  away  as  Nial  again  moved  out  of 
reach. 

264 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

"  I  will  lay  my  curse  upon  you,  you  evil 
beast !  "  Cameron  shouted  hoarsely — "  Dho- 
nas's  a  dholas  ort ! — Bas  dunach  ort ! — Ay, 
ay,  Nial  the  Soulless,  son  of  the  demon- 
woman,  God  against  thee  and  in  thy  face, 
drowning  on  sea  and  burning  on  land,  a  stake 
of  the  whitethorn  between  thy  heart  and  the 
pit  of  thy  belly !  "  x 

Of  the  few  curses  he  knew,  none  seemed 
to  Nial  so  terrible,  so  mysterious,  so  straight 
upon  life  out  of  Death,  as  that  conveyed  by 
the  two  words,  "  Marbh'asg  ort !  " 

He  waited  till  the  fury  of  the  man  was 
spent.  Then,  frowning  darkly,  with  his  red, 
bloodshot  eyes  agleam,  he  muttered,  "Marb- 
h'asg ort!  .  .  .  Your  death-wrappings  be 
about  you !  "  So  low  was  his  voice  that  it  fell 
unheeded. 

Cameron  turned  his  sightless  eyes  upon 
him.  Nial  shivered.  The  blindness  of  his  king 
hurt  him  as  a  searing  pain. 

1  "Dhonas's  a  dholas  ort" — "Bas  dunach  ort":  i.e. 
"Evil  and  sorrow  to  you.  ...  A  death  of  woe  be 
yours!  God  against  thee,"  etc.:  this  dreadful  and 
dreaded  anathema  runs  in  the  Gaelic — "Dia  ad 
aghaidh  *s  ad  aodann,  bathadh  air  muir  is  losgadh 
air  tir,  crogan  sgithhich  eadar  do  chridhe  's  t' 
airnean":  from  which  it  will  be  seen,  by  those  who 
know  Gaelic,  that  I  have  not  translated  literally 
either  "crogan"  or  "airnean." 

265 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  What  was  the  thing  you  said,  Nial  of  the 
brutes?" 

With  a  great  effort,  the  bitter  word  was 
slain  ere  it  was  spoken.  The  voice  that  came 
from  that  wild,  fantastic,  woodland  thing, 
with  its  shaggy  peaked  head,  its  faun-like 
ears,  its  rude,  misshapen  body,  was  ever 
harsh  as  a  branch  grating  in  the  wind ;  but 
now  it  was  gentle.  Tears  that  were  unshed 
softened  it.  The  grief  of  the  pariah  was  its 
benediction. 

"  Mam-Gorm,  my  father,  the  thing  I  said 
was  a  bitter  thing  out  of  Nial  the  herd,  but 
this  thing  that  I  say  to  you  is  by  poor  Nial 
of  the  brutes,  and  that  is  God  preserve  you 
.  .  .  ay,  gu'n  gleidhcadh  Dia  thu,  Torcall-mo- 
maighstir ! " 

And  with  that  the  brute  turned  from  the 
man  who  had  cursed  him,  and  with  slow  steps 
and  bent  head  made  his  way  across  the  hill- 
side, till  he  entered  the  forest,  whence  he 
came  not  for  three  days,  and  where  none, 
not  even  Oona,  saw  him. 

It  may  be  that  he  had  heard  at  last  the  song 
of  the  white  merle. 


266 


The   Mountain    Lovers 


So  the  weeks  went  till  the  coming  of  the 
season  that,  because  of  the  heats  and  of  the 
drought,  is  called  the  month  of  the  hanging 
of  the  dog's  mouth.1 

Great  heat,  with  many  thunders,  had  pre- 
vailed. For  nine  days  at  the  beginning  of 
July  the  rain  poured :  or  ceased,  only  to  let 
rainbows  come  and  go  upon  the  gleaming 
hills.  During  this  time  Oona  and  the  blind 
man  at  Mam-Gorm  were  much  together.  A 
change  had  come  upon  the  child.  She  looked 
at  her  foster-father  often,  with  a  wistful 
gaze.  Something  puzzled  her.  In  the  air, 
some  vague  trouble  moved  like  a  vanishing 
shadow.  Of  Nial  she  saw  little.  Now  and 
again  she  heard  his  signal  in  the  forest,  and 
answered  it :  sometimes,  at  dawn  or  dusk, 
coming  upon  him  on  the  hillside,  sitting  soli- 
tary on  some  isolated  boulder,  or  crouching 
by  a  pool,  and  staring  intently  into  its  depths. 
But  he  would  not  come  across  the  airidh. 
No  one  knew  how  he  lived.  Once  or  twice 
Murdo  the  shepherd  gave  him  to  eat :  and, 
every  morning  and  night,  Oona  put  a  small 

1  Mios  crochaidh  nan  con.  This  month  is  the 
period  from  the  middle  of  July  till  the  middle  of 
August. 

267 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

crock  of  porridge  and  oatcakes,  or  other  food, 
in  a  place  where  the  vagrant  could  have  it  if 
he  willed — and  thrice,  at  least,  she  found  it 
empty.  On  the  few  moonlit  nights  she  fan- 
cied she  saw  a  pale,  misty  column  of  thin 
smoke  rise  above  the  pines. 

Still  more  was  she  troubled  about  Sorcha. 
Her  beautiful  sister  had  grown  even  lovelier 
to  look  upon,  but  there  was  a  new  look  in 
her  eyes,  a  new  hush  in  her  voice.  She  shep- 
herded on  the  mountain  as  one  in  a  trance: 
as  one  in  a  dream  she  moved  about  the 
house.  At  night,  in  her  sleep,  she  sighed 
often,  and  moaned  gently :  and  once,  turn- 
ing and  finding  Oona  by  her,  she  put  her 
arms  round  the  child,  and,  sleeping  still, 
whispered,  "Ah,  heart  of  my  heart,  joy  of  my 
joy!" 

Oona  knew  that  Sorcha  and  Alan  Gilchrist 
loved  each  other.  She  knew,  also,  that  this 
was  why  Alan  could  never  come  to  Mam- 
Gorm,  for  her  foster-father  had  laid  his  ban 
upon  their  love.  But  what  did  this  love 
mean?  What,  she  pondered  vaguely,  did  this 
tragic  silence,  this  tragic  yet  happy  silence 
hide ?  "I  know  now,"  she  said  one  day  to 
Sorcha  at  the  coming  home  of  the  kye,  "  I 
know  now  why  it  is  that  Alan,  when  he 
meets  you   in  the  gloaming  by  the  byre  or 

268 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

in  the  hay-shed,  or  down  in  the  strath  by  the 
Mairg  Water,  calls  you  '  Dream.'  " 

Sorcha  was  startled,  and  the  beautiful  face 
flushed  at  the  knowledge  that  she  had  been 
seen  at  these  secret  meetings  with  Alan. 
Oona's  unconsciousness  of  any  cause  of  em- 
barrassment, however,  reassured  her. 

"So  you  have  seen  us,  Oona  my  flower? 
Well,  see  to  it  that  you  say  nothing  of  this 
to  father,  or  to  any  one.  And,  Oona,  my 
bonnie,  how  do  you  know  he — Alan — calls 
me  '  Dream ' :  and  what  do  you  mean  by  say- 
ing you  know  now  what  that  means  ?  " 

"  I  heard  him  call  you  so,  that  moonlight 
night  last  week,  when  you  came  hand  in 
hand  through  the  wood.  He  called  you  Sun- 
shine, Joy,  and  then  Dream — and  you  said 
that  '  Dream  '  was  best,  for  it  was  the  name 
he  gave  you  '  that  day.'  .  .  .  Sorcha !  " 

"Yes,  birdeen?" 

"What  was  '  that  day'?" 

The  girl  turned  her  face  aside,  because  of 
the  flame  in  it ;  but  the  flush  was  in  the  white 
neck  as  well,  and  the  child  laughed. 

"  Ah,  it  was  when  he  first  kissed  you !  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Sorcha  answered,  flushing 
again ;  "  yes,  it  must  have  been  then." 

"  Sorcha,  tell  me,  do  you  love  him  very 
much?" 

269 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

"  Yes.  More  than  I  can  tell  you,  my  sun- 
beam. When  you  are  a  woman  you  will 
understand." 

"  When  I  am  a  woman  I  am  going  to  marrv 
Nial." 

"  Nial !  " 

"  Yes.  No  one  will  love  him,  because  he 
has  no  soul;  but  /  love  him,  and  will  marry 
him.     Half  of  my  soul  will  then  be  his." 

'  Is  that  so,  then  ?  Sure  'tis  a  south  wind 
for  Nial !  And  where  will  you  live,  Oona- 
my-heart  ?  " 

'  The  White  Merle  will  show  us  the  way." 

"Ah,  I  see,  it  is  a  fairy  tale.  Well  .  .  . 
Oona,  I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  /  have  heard 
the  song  of  the  White  Merle !  " 

The  child's  eyes  grew  big  with  wonder  and 
excitement. 

'  When  ?  Where  ?  Was  it  where  the  old 
yews  are  in  the  Upper  Strath  ?  " 

"  It  was  now  here  and  now  there." 

"  But   when,   when  ?  " 

'  Whenever  Alan  called  me  '  Dream,'  and 
the  other  names,  1  heard  the  song  of  the 
White  Merle." 

"  Ah,  it  is  you  that  I  envy !  Sorcha,  do 
you  thin!;  that  if  Nial  called  me  beautiful 
names  I  should  hear  it,  too  ?  " 

;<  I  fear  not,  dearie  .  .  .  not  yet.     Perhaps 

270 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

— perhaps  if  you  called  Nial  those  beautiful 
names  he  would  hear  the  song." 

"  Then  I  will." 

"  No,  not  yet,  Bonnikin.  You  will  only 
harm  Nial.  But  now  run  away.  Father  will 
be  seeking  you." 

"Ah,  and  who  will  be  seeking  you?"  cried 
Oona,  as  she  danced  away,  laughing.  "  Ah, 
'tis  a  good  name,  Dream;  for  you  are  always 
dreaming  in  your  eyes  now,  Sorcha !  " 

Yet  day  by  day  thereafter  the  child  laughed 
less  blithely.  There  was  a  shadow  about  her 
foster-father.  It  held  her  spellbound.  Never 
had  she  been  so  long  away  from  the  woods 
before,  never  before  had  she  been  so  long 
indoors.  She  was  glad  to  be  with  the  blind 
man,  and  to  take  his  hand  when  he  went  out 
to  stride  sometimes  for  miles  along  the  rough 
ways  of  the  hills.  She  talked  much  to  him 
about  the  White  Merle,  and  the  "  guid-folk," 
and  the  quiet  people;  sometimes  of  Nial,  and 
of  the  strange  things  he  saw  and  heard,  and 
how  the  birds  and  beasts  would  come  to  him, 
and  how  he  harmed  none,  nor  they  him. 
Sometimes  she  asked  about  the  Cailliach,  or 
about  the  wind-spirits ;  or  strange  questions 
about  the  people  of  the  Strath,  glimpses  of 
whom  she  had  occasionally,  and   for  whom, 

271 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

particularly  for  the  black-garbed  minister,  she 
did  not  conceal  her  contempt  and  dislike. 
Sometimes  she  sang;  and  that  was  what  the 
blind  man  liked  best.  Once  only  she  spoke 
of  Alan:  how  she  thought  that  Christ  must 
be  like  him,  so  fair  to  see  was  he;  how  she 
loved  his  low  voice,  and  soft  touch,  and 
grave,  sweet  eyes. 

But  she  saw  at  once  that  no  good  would 
come  out  of  any  mention  of  that  name.  Her 
foster-father  grew  moodily  taciturn;  and 
when,  after  a  long  silence,  he  spoke,  it  was 
to  ask  her  in  a  harsh  voice  if  she  had  ever 
broken  his  command,  and  climbed  the  oppo- 
site slopes  of  Tornideon. 

"Never,  father." 

"  And  have  you  ever  sought  the  woman 
Anabal,  that  is  mother  of  Alan  ?  " 

"  No." 

He  seemed  satisfied,  and  asked  nothing 
further.  But  as  for  Oona,  she  brooded  over 
this  more  and  more,  and  wondered  more  and 
more  because  of  the  ban  upon  Alan,  and  be- 
cause of  the  feud  between  Torcall  Cameron 
in  his  loneliness  on  Iolair  and  Anabal  Gil- 
christ in  her  loneliness  on  Tornideon. 

The  first  day  of  August  came  with  settled 
weather,  and  almost  tropic  heat. 

2J2 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

All  that  day  Torcall  Cameron  had  been 
strangely  restless.  If  Oona  left  him  for  more 
than  a  few  moments,  he  grew  impatient,  and 
then  angry.  Again  and  again  she  begged 
him  to  come  into  the  green  shadowy  woods, 
or  even  to  climb  to  the  Ridge  of  the  Stags  on 
Iolair;  but  he  would  not.  At  last,  weary 
with  the  heat  and  the  long  blank  hours,  weary 
too  with  Oona's  importunities,  and  not  wholly 
unwilling  to  humour  her  for  his  own  sake,  he 
let  her  take  his  hand  and  lead  him  forth  at 
her  will. 

Sorcha  alone  knew  that,  for  some  reason 
which  she  never  fathomed,  her  father's 
"  black  day "  was  this  first  day  of  August. 
Year  after  year,  his  "  dubhachas,"  his  gloom, 
came  upon  him  with  that  dawn,  so  that  he 
would  have  word  with  none.  She  knew,  too, 
that  when  the  dark  day  was  gone,  her  father 
was  better  for  weeks  thereafter,  and  some- 
times smiled  and  laughed  like  other  men. 

The  night  before  had  been  an  ill  passing 
of  July.  Murdo,  the  shepherd,  had  come  in, 
his  face  white.  As  he  had  come  down  the 
mountain  he  had  heard  a  wild  and  beautiful 
singing,  and  had  descried  a  herd  of  deer  be- 
ing driven  with  the  wind,  keeping  close  to- 
gether. He  had  not  seen  the  demon-woman, 
for  he  had  turned  his  head  away,  and  mut- 

273 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

tered  a  sian  to  keep  the  evil  of  her  from 
coming  about  him  like  a  snake.  But  he 
thought  the  wind  brought  some  of  the  words 
of  her  song  to  him,  and  they  were  of  death 
and  the  grave.  Then,  muttering  "  Glacar 
iad's  na  innleachdan  a  dhealbh  iad  " — "  Let 
them  be  taken  in  the  devices  they  have  imag- 
ined " — he  had  fled.  Later,  Oona  came  with 
a  strange  story  from  Nial.  He  had  been 
crossing  the  highland  behind  Mam-Gorm,  and 
had  seen  two  men  and  two  women  walking 
silently  with  bowed  heads.  One  man  was 
tall  and  dripping  wet,  as  though  he  had  come 
out  of  water,  and  his  lank  hair  hung  adown 
his  face.  The  other  man  was  Mam-Gorm 
himself.  The  faces  of  the  others  he  could 
not  see,  but  one  woman  was  tall  and  gaunt, 
with  wild,  straggling  grey  hair — a  woman  like 
Anabal  Gilchrist  on  Tornideon.  He  heard 
only  one  word  spoken,  and  that  was  when 
Mam-Gorm  stopped,  looked  at  the  house,  and 
said,  "  C'aite  am  bheil  an  cilidriomf  "  1 

"What    is    an    eilidriom,    Sorcha?"    Oona 
had  added.     To  which  her  sister  had  replied 

1  "Where  is  the  hearse?"  Eilidriom  (pronounced 
like  d-ee-drem,  is  used  in  Skye  and  the  isles,  rarely 
if  ever  on  the  mainland.  Snaoimh  (bier)  is  the 
common  word,  though  when  a  hearse  is  actually 
meant,  it  is  alluded  to  as  the  carbad-mharbh,  "the 
death-chariot." 

274 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

that  she  did  not  know,  and  that  she  was  to 
say  nothing  of  this  in  the  house. 

"  And  what  then,  Oona  ?  " 

Nial,  the  child  resumed,  had  heard  no  more. 
But  when  he  turned  and  looked  toward  the 
strath  he  saw  nine  men  moving  away  from 
Mam-Gorm,  carrying  in  their  midst  a  long 
black  box.  When  he  glanced  back,  the  four 
wayfarers  he  had   seen  had   disappeared. 

Yet,  as  Sorcha  knew,  her  father  had  not 
stirred  from  the  house  that  day.  Nothing  of 
what  Murdo  or  Nial  had  seen  came  to  his 
ears — of  that  she  was  heedful.  But  suddenly, 
while  they  were  eating  the  porridge,  Oona 
asked  her  foster-father  what  an  "  eilidriom  " 
was. 

Cameron  sprang  to  his  feet,  pale  as  death, 
and  shaking,  with  the  milk  that  he  had  spilt 
from  the  mug  in  his  hand  running  down  his 
breast  as  though  his  life-blood  were  pouring 
from  him,  white,  too,  with  fear. 

"What  is  that  you  say,  Oona?"  he  cried, 
hoarsely;  "what  is  that  you  say?  Do  you 
see  a  carbad-mharbh — at  the  door — coming 
here?  " 

"  No — no "  murmured  the  child,  terri- 
fied. 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  that  word  for  it? 
Who   told   it  to   you?      I   have   not   heard   it 

275 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

said  for  years.  No  man  uses  it  in  this  coun- 
try. I  have  not  heard  it  since — since  Mar- 
sail  died — and  then  it  was  from — from  the 
people  yonder  on  Tornideon,  for  Anabal  Gil- 
christ was  of  the  isles." 

But  here  Sorcha  had  interposed,  and  said 
that  Oona  had  picked  it  up  in  some  way — 
in  one  of  the  old  runes  told  her  by  Murdo, 
no  doubt. 

For  the  rest  of  that  night  Torcall  Cameron 
only  once  opened  his  lips,  and  that  not  at  the 
covering  of  the  peats,  or  when  Sorcha  sang 
one  of  the  sweet  orain  spioradail  he  loved  so 
well,  after  she  had  read  a  while  in  the  Book 
of  Peace.  It  was  when  she  came  to  him 
after  he  had  lain  down  in  his  bed,  and  kissed 
him,  and  let  her  flooding  tears  fall  warm 
upon  his  blind,  upstaring  eyes :  then  he  pulled 
her  head  closer,  and  whispered,  ;'  Sorcha, 
Sorcha,  my  soul  swims  in  mist !  " 

It  was  a  night  of  beauty,  and  still.  All 
slept.  But  toward  dawn  a  voice  arose  in 
the  corries.  From  height  to  height  it  went, 
and  the  long  wail  of  it  swept  past  the  green 
airidh  of  Mam-Gorm  and  wandered  sobbing 
through  the  forest.  Then  all  was  still  again. 
The  dawn  that  came  soon  after  was  of  pale 
gold  and  faintest  wild-rose.  Peace  was  in  the 
heaven. 

276 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

But  with  that  sudden  passing  wail,  so  often 
heard  on  the  mountains  when  there  is  not  a 
cloud  in  the  sky,  and  when  far  and  near  not 
a  branch  sways,  and  the  gnats  dance  in  long 
columns  perpendicularly  without  drifting  this 
way  or  that — with  that  voice  out  of  the  hills, 
Torcall  awoke. 

When  Sorcha  arose  she  heard  him  moan- 
ing. Wearily  she  wondered  what  this  fate- 
ful date  meant,  this  dreaded  first  day  of  the 
eighth  month.  When  she  went  to  him,  he 
said  no  other  word  than  this :  "  I  have  heard 
the  lamentable  cry  of  death." 

"The  cry  of  death?"  she  repeated,  ques- 
tioningly. 

"  Ay,  truly,  the  lamentation  of  the  demon- 
women  mourning  for  the  dead." 

So  it  was  that  all  that  day  Torcall  Cam- 
eron had  been  as  a  man  in  an  ill-dream, 
weary  of  the  long  hours,  yet  dreading  the 
passing  of  them  into  the  shadow.  So,  too, 
it  was  that,  at  the  last,  he  went  forth  with 
Oona. 

At  first  they  wandered  into  the  forest,  but 
here  Torcall  was  never  at  ease,  and  so  after 
a  time  they  strolled  hand  in  hand  from  glade 
to  glade,  till  the  sound  of  Mairg  Water  came 
soothing-cool  through  the  heat. 

277 


The    Mountain   Lovers 

The  peace  and  utter  quietude  lay  as  balm 
upon  the  weary  man.  He  grew  drowsy  at 
last,  as  his  trouble  seemed  to  lift  from  him. 
More  than  once  he  would  have  stopped,  and 
thrown  himself  on  the  ground,  content  to 
stir  no  further,  but  Oona  urged  him  to  come 
on  to  where  the  river  ran  through  shelving 
ledges  with  a  singing  sound,  and  nothing 
else  was  to  be  heard  but  the  whisper  of  the 
silver  birches  and  the  thin,  green  reeds. 

The  crooning  of  the  cushats  was  in  his 
ears.  Sweet  it  was  to  have  that  soft  touch 
of  sound  after  the  lamentable  cry  of  the  hills, 
that  morning  cry  now  dulled,  so  that  it  was 
there  only  as  a  shadow  in  a  darkened  room. 

He  was  glad  when  the  breath  of  the  water 
came  upon  his  face,  and  he  could  sit  down 
among  the  bracken  and  fragrant  gale,  and  do 
no  more  than  listen  idly  to  the  passage  of 
the  water.  The  whispering  water,  the  scarce 
audible  susurrus  of  faintly  stirred  leaves  over- 
head, the  singing  of  the  gnats,  the  low  inces- 
sant croon  of  the  cushats,  these  were  all  the 
sounds  to  hear.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  moved 
in  the  pinewood,  so  that  it  gave  not  even  that 
vast,  slow  suspiration  which  may  be  heard  in 
forests  once  or  twice  between  sunrise  and 
sundown  even  on  stillest  days.  All  the  birds 
were    still,   though    few    sang   even   at    day- 

278 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

break  in  that  season  of  the  young  brood. 
Over  the  reaches  of  the  water  the  swallows 
skimmed,  hawking  silently. 

An  hour  passed.  Thinking  that  he  slept, 
and  weary  of  sitting  still  so  long,  Oona  rose 
and  slipped  away.  At  first  she  went  to  a 
great  yew  that  towered  near  the  fringe  of  the 
forest,  to  see  if  the  wood-doves  she  had  heard 
crooning  there  had  fallen  asleep,  for  now 
they  no  longer  made  their  croodling  moan. 
Then,  having  espied  them,  sitting  close  with 
fluffed  plumage  and  drooping  wings  as  they 
drowsed  in  the  warm  shadow,  she  peered 
here  and  there  for  the  nest  of  a  shrew-mouse, 
for  often  she  had  heard  thereabouts  the  pat- 
ter of  the  wild-mice  in  days  of  drought. 

Her  quest  led  her  on  and  on.  A  sudden 
splash  made  her  look  at  the  narrow  river. 
A  grilse  had  leaped  half  out  of  the  clear 
amber-brown  water,  and  missed  the  dragon- 
fly which  had  been  poising  its  arrow-flight 
close  to  a  wreath  of  circling  foam.  The 
tumult  of  the  linn,  a  score  of  yards  beyond 
her,  was  pleasant  in  her  ears.  She  forgot 
the  shrew-mice,  and  thought  only  of  the  great 
salmon  that  Nial  declared  slept  or  lay  waiting 
night  and  day  under  a  ledge  at  the  bottom 
of  the  linn.  Yes ;  she  would  steal  across  the 
rocks,  and  creep  in  among  the  boulders,  and 

279 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

lie  along  the  lowest  ledge  that  sloped  to  the 
seething  hollow,  whose  black  depths,  and  the 
deafening  noise  of  whose  tumult,  had  ever 
an  irresistible  fascination  for  her. 

She  seemed  like  a  water-sprite  herself,  as 
she  stood  on  a  high  rock  at  a  place  where 
the  ledges  sloped  sheer  into  a  crevice,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  a  snake  of  brown  water 
writhed  through  holes  and  crannies  till  it 
leaped  out  into  a  back  eddy  of  the  river  whence 
it  came.  She  had  plucked  a  branch  of  rowan- 
berries,  some  still  green  or  ruddy  brown,  but 
others  already  kissed  into  flame  by  the  sun. 
This  she  waved  slowly  to  and  fro  before  her, 
partly  to  keep  the  midges  away,  partly  be- 
cause the  rhythm  of  the  running  water  was 
flowing  through  her  brain,  and  so  along  all 
the  nerves  of  her  body.  The  sunflood  beat 
full  upon  her.  Her  short,  ragged,  scanty 
dress  glowed  like  a  chestnut-husk  in  the  sun- 
light; in  the  hot  yellow  sunshine  the  tanned 
skin  of  her  legs  and  feet  gleamed  ivory  white. 
With  parted  lips  and  shining  eyes  she  stood 
intent,  transfigured. 

Suddenly  she  started.  A  look  of  curios- 
ity, of  astonishment,  came  into  her  eyes. 

What,  she  wondered,  was  that  unfamiliar 
object  lying  in  a  ferny  hollow  of  the  rocks 
which   formed   the   bridge   of   Mairg   Water, 

280 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

whence  the  stream  fell  in  a  rushing  cataract 
into  the  Linn?  A  human  figure,  clearly;  a 
woman,  too.  Who  could  she  be?  Was  she 
alive  or  dead?  Was  it  Sorcha?  No.  Could 
it  be  one  of  the  fairy-women  of  whom  she 
had  heard  so  often :  the  Cailliach,  of  whom 
she  had  been  told  so  many  tales;  or  that 
green-clad,  yellow-scarfed,  mysterious  Ban- 
drnidh,  the  sorceress  who  won  the  souls  out 
of  grown  men,  and  whose  glance  was  fate- 
ful as  a  kelpie's  ?  A  kelpie's !  Ah,  was  this 
indeed  not  the  kelpie  of  the  Linn  o'  Mairg, 
lying  there  in  wait  for  her !  or  might  it  be  in 
truth  the  kelpie,  yet  only  asleep  there  in  the 
great  heat?  If  so,  now  was  the  time  to 
espy  it,  and  perhaps  steal  or  find  a  hair  of 
its  head — which,  wound  about  the  third  finger 
of  her  left  hand,  would  make  her  a  princess 
among  the  secret  people,  and  enable  her  to 
know  what  no  one  in  the  whole  strath,  or 
the  greater  strath  of  the  world  beyond, 
would  know,  to  see  what  no  one  would  see. 

These  were  the  thoughts  which  passed 
through  her  mind,  while  her  blue  eyes  gazed 
unwaveringly  at  the  woman,  dead  or  asleep. 

At  last,  slowly,  and  with  careful  heed,  she 
drew  nearer  and  nearer.  When  still  many 
yards  away  she  recognised  the  sleeper,  whose 
deep,    regular    breathing    reassured    her.      It 

281 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

was  Anabal  Gilchrist,  the  mother  of  Alan, 
the  woman  banned  to  her  and  Sorcha  by 
their  father  as  though  she  were  accursed. 
True  to  her  word,  Oona  had  never  been  at 
Ardoch-beag,  the  widow  Anabal's  farm,  but 
several  times  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  solitary  woman,  and  now  knew  her  at  the 
first  glance.  Once,  more  than  two  years 
back,  she  had  been  luring  trout  one  evening 
in  the  Mairg  Water  near  Ardoch  ford ;  and 
had  been  startled  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  a  woman,  who  had  seized  her  in  her  arms 
and  kissed  her  over  and  over,  sobbing  con- 
vulsively the  while.  The  woman  had  drawn 
her  plaid  over  her  head,  and  what  with  this, 
and  the  dusk,  and  her  fear,  Oona  had  not 
time  to  discover  who  it  was.  Later,  she  was 
convinced  that  it  was  no  other  than  the 
mother  of  Alan. 

When  she  saw  her  now  before  her  she 
stood  hesitatingly.  She  felt  drawn  to  this 
sad-faced  woman  who  had  once  snatched 
her  in  the  dusk  and  covered  her  face  with 
kisses ;  but  she  was  still  more  attracted  by 
the  mystery  which  enveloped  her. 

It  was  only  a  quarrel,  Sorcha  had  told  her ; 
and  often  she  had  heard  her  sister  say  that 
if  only  her  father  and  Anabal  would  meet, 
all  might  be  explained.     In  a  flash  an  idea 

282 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

came  into  the  child's  mind.  The  thought 
sent  the  blood  leaping  from  her  heart.  Her 
eyes  shone. 

Two  motives  impelled  Oona.  Neither  was 
of  itself,  but  one  was  interwrought  with  the 
other.  The  love  of  mischief,  with  her  innate 
audacity  and  fearlessness,  urged  her  to  place 
her  foster-father  in  the  last  place  in  the  world 
where  he  would  fain  be ;  but,  also,  something 
in  her  heart  pleaded  for  the  quiet  bringing 
together,  in  that  hushed  and  beautiful  sun- 
going,  of  these  two  bitter  haters. 

Yes,  she  would  do  it,  though  she  knew  that 
her  foster-father's  wrath  might  fall  heavily 
upon  her.  If — if  only  Sorcha — no,  she  did 
not  care,  she  would  do  it.  After  all,  no  harm 
would  come  of  it.  She  would  watch,  and  if 
the  woman  rose  and  went  away,  she  would 
come  back  and  take  her  foster-father's  hand 
and  lead  him  home  again. 

Though  the  woman  slept,  overcome  with 
weariness,  why  was  it  that  a  trouble  of  deep 
sorrow  still  lay  upon  her  face,  as  the  trouble 
of  waters,  even  after  the  sea-wind  has  died 
into  the  blue  calm  of  the  air?  The  tears 
were  still  wet  upon  the  hand  that  lay  across 
her  breast;  why  had  they  fallen?  The  child 
stood  a  while  brooding.  What  did  it  mean? 
Slowly  she  glanced  about  her.     No  one  was 

283 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

visible.  It  was  clear  that  by  the  way  the 
woman  lay  she  had  not  fallen. 

At  that  moment  Oona  noticed  that  Torcall 
had  slipped  a  little,  because  of  the  slope 
whereon  he  had  lain.  Drowsily  he  was  feel- 
ing about  him  for  an  easier  rest. 

Like  a  hare,  as  swift  and  as  soundlessly, 
she  made  her  way  to  him. 

"  Rise,  father,"  she  whispered ;  "  come  fur- 
ther up  the  stream;  it  is  pleasanter  there." 

For  nights  Torcall  Cameron  had  had  little 
or  no  sleep. 

Weary  with  these  long,  long  hours ;  weary 
with  his  fasting  and  his  restless  idleness; 
weary  with  the  windless  heat;  and,  above 
all,  weary  of  his  own  thoughts  and  of  him- 
self, he  resigned  himself  gladly  into  Oona's 
hands. 

Even  as  he  walked  he  swayed.  Sleep  was 
so  heavy  upon  him  that  the  roar  of  the 
waters  of  the  Linn  came  to  him  no  loudlier 
than  as  the  muffled  song  and  humming 
rhythm  of  the  stream  itself. 

Gently,  with  her  heart  beating  the  while, 
the  child  led  the  blind  man  to  the  place  where 
the  woman  Anabal,  after  long  weeping,  had 
fallen  into  deep  slumber.  He  lay  down  like 
a  child.  The  noise  of  the  rushing  waters 
lulled   him,    the    ancientest,    sweetest   cradle- 

284 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

song  in  all  the  wide  green  world.  If  he  heard 
at  all  the  breathing  of  the  sleeping  woman, 
no  other  thought  could  have  come  to  him 
than  that  it  was  Oona. 

She  stared  down  at  them  with  awestruck 
eyes.  What  was  this  unthinkable  terror  that 
shook  her  like  a  leaf  ?  For  a  moment  she  con- 
quered her  fear,  a  fear  so  vague,  and  of  the 
soul  only,  that  she  did  not  know  she  was 
afraid,  though  the  nerves  in  her  body  leaped 
to  the  breath  of  it. 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  Yellow  was 
the  light  that  fell  upon  the  tangled  iron-grey 
hair  of  the  weary  sleeper  at  her  feet ;  yellow 
as  yellow  flowers  was  the  gleam  upon  the 
brown-grey  tresses  of  the  weary  sleeper  by 
his  side. 

The  hand  of  the  woman  moved.  Out  of 
the  sunglow  the  arm  crept  like  a  snake,  then 
it  lay  still  in  the  shadow  betwixt  the  two  who 
slumbered  unheeding. 

Oona  knew  not  why  she  did  it,  nor 
even  what  she  did ;  but  with  a  touch,  light 
almost  as  the  warm  sunbeam  itself,  she 
guided  the  hand  of  Anabal  toward  that  of 
Torcall.  As  two  ships  draw  together  on  a 
calm  sea  though  far  apart,  so  the  hands  of 
these  two,  who  had  not  spoken  one  with  the 
other  for  weary  years,  slipped  at  last  side  by 

285 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

side.  The  man  stirred  a  moment,  smiled,  and 
gently  clasped  the  hand  in  his. 

Then,  when  all  was  well,  Oona  shivered 
with  actual  dread.  What  if  they  should  die 
so?  What  if  they  were  already  dead?  Once 
more  she  fought  back  this  terrifying  emotion. 
How  quiet  they  seemed!  Sweet  is  the  grey 
sleep  of  the  old. 

"  Tha  lad  rcidha  nis,"  she  sighed  rather 
than  whispered ;  "  they  are  at  peace  now." 

But  now  no  longer  could  she  stay.  Like 
a  fawn,  after  she  had  crept  back  upon  the 
grassy  ledges,  she  leaped  from  boulder  to  boul- 
der. Soon  she  was  at  the  verge  of  the  for- 
est. Inexplicable  fear  drove  her  like  a  whip. 
Minute  after  minute  passed,  and  still  she  fled 
as  though  pursued.  Nearly  a  mile  had  she 
gone  before  she  stopped,  only  to  fling  her- 
self into  the  bracken  in  a  sheltered  place, 
a  kind  of  cave  formed  by  the  gigantic  roots 
of  a  fallen  pine-tree,  long  years  ago  wrenched 
away  like  a  reed  and  stricken  to  the  ground. 
There,  sobbing  at  she  knew  not  what,  she 
cried  herself  to  sleep  at  last.  When  the  dark 
came,  her  slumber  was  unbroken.  A  soli- 
tary moonbeam  that  made  its  way  through 
the  dense  covert  to  where  she  slept  lay  upon 
her  feet,  upon  her  slow-moving  breast,  upon 
the  white  flower  of  her  face,  upon  the  out- 

286 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

spread  tangle  of  her  hair,  which  it  clothed 
with  fugitive  pale  gold.  No  vision  of  ill  dis- 
turbed her.  Once  only  she  stirred,  as,  in 
dreamland,  she  thought  she  heard  the  song 
of  the  White  Merle. 


VI 


When  the  gloaming  fell  upon  the  Linn  o' 
Mairg,  Anabal  stirred.  The  churr  of  a 
fern-owl  echoed  in  her  ear,  and  dimly  she 
awoke  to  the  knowledge  that  it  was  late.  But 
where  was  she?  She  had  dreamed  a  pleasant 
dream.  Hand  in  hand — even  now,  she 
thought — hand  in  hand  even  now  were  she 
and  Fergus — Fergus  so  long  dead,  and  never 
come  again  to  put  his  lips  against  the  pain 
in  her  heart. 

After  all,  was  it  a  dream?  Or,  rather, 
was  not  all  that  weary  past  a  dream?  She 
would  not  open  her  eyes.  She  would  press 
the  hand  that  clasped  hers,  then  she  would 
know. 

Ah,  the  joy  and  the  pain  of  it !  It  was 
Fergus  indeed !  She  had  moved  her  hand 
and  pressed  his,  and  the  pressure  had  been 
returned — faintly  and  slowly,  as  though  in 
sleep,  yet  still  returned  !    But  where  was  she  ? 

287 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

That  noise  of  waters  all  about  her,  that  cease- 
less surge  and  splash,  the  smell  of  the  rush- 
ing water,  the  cool  spray  upon  her  face :  was 
this  not  indeed  the  Linn  o'  Mairg,  where, 
late  that  afternoon,  she  had  fallen  asleep? 

Now  at  last  it  was  clear.  Yes,  she  was 
at  the  Linn  o'  Mairg.  But  the  time  of  her 
mourning  was  over,  and  her  evil  was  no 
more  anywhere  in  the  blue  sky  or  in  the  green 
earth,  for  Fergus  had  come  to  her. 

In  this  hour  of  death,  she  must  tell  him 
all.  She  would  not  open  her  eyes  yet  awhile. 
She  of  the  living  might  not  be  able  to  look 
on  that  of  the  dead.  And  first,  moreover,  she 
must  speak. 

"Fergus!" 

No  sound  came  from  the  sleeper  by  her 
side.  She  imagined  that  his  hand  quivered, 
but  she  did  not  know  for  sure. 

"Fergus!" 

Ah !  now  he  was  awake  from  his  death- 
sleep,  for  she  heard  his  breath  come  quick 
and  hard.  The  hand  she  held  in  hers  shud- 
dered as  with  palsy. 

"  Ah,  cold  hand  of  my  heart !  "  she  mur- 
mured, raising  it,  chafing  it  the  while,  and 
putting  it  to  her  lips  at  last. 

"  Ah,  cold  hand  out  of  the  grave !  Often 
have  I  felt  it  at  my  heart !     Fergus,  dear  to 

288 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

me,  Fergus,  Fergus !  Ah,  one  word  to  me,  one 
word  to  me !  " 

Still  no  whisper  from  the  man  beside  her. 
She  could  hear  the  shuddering  breath  of  him. 

'Fergus,  I  must  speak!  If  the  dead  know 
aught,  lang  syne  you  must  have  known  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  evil  deed  done  upon 
you.  But  oh,  my  man,  my  man,  I  had  loved 
Torcall  before  I  loved  you!  Fergus,  listen! 
Do  not  draw  away  from  me !  Do  not  rise ! 
Fergus,  Fergus,  I  must  tell  you  all !  " 

"Speak!" 

Awe  came  upon  her  as  a  sudden  darkness 
at  noon.  The  dead  had  spoken.  The  life  in 
her  body  tore  at  the  gateway  of  the  heart. 
The  voice  was  human,  hoarse  and  low  as  it 
was.  Almost  she  had  courage.  Once  more 
that  low,  hoarse  mandate  came.  The  sound 
shuddered  through  the  dark  upon  her  ear. 

"Speak!" 

'  Be  not  too  hard  upon  me,  Fergus !  I 
loved  him,  though  not  as  he  loved  me.  I  never 
forgave  him  because  that  in  his  anger  he 
married  Marsail.  But  when  I  was  to  marry 
you,    whom    I    loved    as    I    had   never    loved 

him " 

*  Here  the  sobbing  woman  stopped  a  mo- 
ment, because  of  the  fierce  grip  upon  her 
hand,  then,   panting,   resumed. 

289 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

"...  Then,  as  God  knows  my  soul,  I  put 
him  out  of  my  heart.  But  the  wild  beast  in 
him  arose  and  rent  him.  He  went  to  and  fro 
mad  because  of  his  lust  of  me.  Then  the  day 
came  when,  in  my  weakness  and  loneliness, 
he  had  his  will  of  me.  For  days  after  that  I 
did  not  see  him.  Then  the  spell  of  the  sin 
fell  upon  me,  and  it  was  sweet — sweet  for  a 
brief  while  was  that  evil  and  accursed  dream ! 
Then  it  was  that  you  came  back  from  the  fish- 
ing among  the  isles,  to  this  place  where  your 
father  lived,  and  where  I  was  because  of  the 
mother  that  bore  me,  and  is  long  dead,  God 
be  praised !  And  when  you  married  me,  Fer- 
gus, the  child  that  is  Oona  was  already 
within  me,  God  shaping  that  burden  there 
underneath  my  heart,  till  every  pulse  beat 
heavy  with  it!  And  now  you  know  the 
thing  that  has  eaten  at  my  life  all  these  weary 
years." 

No  sound,  save  the  constrained  sobbing 
breath  of  him  who  listened. 

"Look!"  he  whispered  at  last. 

Slowly  Anabal  opened  her  eyes.  In  the 
misty  dusk  she  could  see  the  white  sheen  of 
the  flying  water,  but  not  the  face  of  her  be- 
loved. The  dark  figure  was  there,  clothed  as 
in  life.  Taller  he  seemed,  and  broader;  but 
sure,   Fergus — sure,    Fergus.      Who   but   he, 

290 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

with  those  eyes  of  love  and  longing  burning 
upon  her  out  of  the  night ! 

"  Anabal! " 

O  God,  the  agony  of  it !  The  voice  was 
even  as  the  voice  of  Torcall,  the  man  who  had 
sown  her  womb  with  the  seed  of  sin,  and  had 
reaped  blindness  and  sorrow  all  the  years  of 
his  life.     Bitter  the  mockery  of  this  thing. 

"  Fergus  !  Fergus !  Heart  o'  me,  hus- 
band !  " 

"Anabal!" 

With  a  scream  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  She 
swayed  as  one  drunken.  The  man  saw  it, 
though  he  was  blind. 

"  Back !  Back !  Back !  "  she  cried,  grop- 
ing blankly  with  outstretched  arms.  "  Back, 
if  you  be  a  phantom  out  o'  hell !  Back,  if  you 
be  the  Fiend  himself!  Back,  Fergus,  back,  if 
dead  ye  be,  and  are  here  but  to  mock  me. 
Back !  Back !  Back !  Torcall  Cameron ! 
Back,  man,  back !  I  am  grey,  grey,  withered, 
grey  and  old.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  God!" 

He  had  leaped  upon  her,  as  a  wolf  leaps. 
She  was  in  his  grasp,  and  the  strength  in  her 
was  as  melting  snow. 

"  Anabal !  God  hears  me :  I  dare  not  lie  to 
you,  I  who  am  blind " 

"  Torcall  Cameron,  as  God  is  my  witness,  I 
saw  your  face  in  his  dead  eyes." 

291 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

The  man  groaned;  then,  as  though  weary, 
spoke  once  again : 

"  I  have  sworn.  I  have  not  lied.  Fergus 
slipped  and  fell,  I  not  touching  him  nor  near 
him  at  the  time.  I  tried  to  catch  him  as  he 
fell,  but  the  Mairg  Water  was  in  spate,  and 
it  was  useless.  He  came  out  at  the  Kelpie's 
Pool.  He  was  not  quite  dead,  and  I  looked 
into  his  eyes  ere  the  veils  came  on." 

Still  no  word,  only  that  dread  silence. 

"  Anabal !  Anabal !  Let  all  this  misery  be 
at  an  end.  Sorrow  has  aged  us  both.  But 
I  have  loved  you  ever.  I  love  you  now. 
Woman,  woman,  you  were  mine,  all  of  you, 
all  of  you,  mine  to  the  leaping  body,  to  the 
beating  heart,  to  the  shaking  soul— mine 
— mine — before  ever  he  touched  you!  Mine 
you  were  before  ever  I  put  my  sin  upon 
you;  mine  you  have  been  ever  since,  and 
ever  sh " 

"  Torcall !  " 

"  I  hear." 

"  Who  brought  you  hither,  this  night  of  all 

nights?" 

"  Oona." 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken  the  name  than  a 
cry  escaped  his  lips,  mate  of  that  which  burst 
from  hers. 

"  Go,  go !    Man,  devil,  murderer,  madman, 

292 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

go,  go !  "  and,  screaming  thus,  with  a  fierce 
struggle,  Anabal  Gilchrist  strove  to  escape 
from  the  grip  that  held  her. 

"  Anabal !  Anabal !  At  least  do  not  send 
me  to  my  death !  I  am  blind.  Lead  me 
home.  Put  me  hence,  and  through  the  wood ! 
I  am  blind,  and  the  night  lives  with  terrors 
for  me !  " 

For  a  moment  the  woman  was  about  to 
yield.  A  long  tress  of  her  grey-brown  hair 
fell  upon  his  hand,  and  he  grasped  it  as  a 
drowning  man  at  a  rope.  Then  she  saw,  or 
believed  that  she  saw,  a  look  in  his  face  that 
maddened   her. 

"  Never,  so  help  me  God  !  " 

Without  a  word,  he  was  upon  her.  He  had 
her  in  his  arms,  and  was  laughing  low,  horri- 
bly, mirthlessly. 

'  I  will  never  let  you  go,  Anabal !  .  .  .  I 
have  waited  long.  .  .  .  You  are  mine,  and  no 
one  else's  .  .  .  mine  you  were,  mine  you  are, 
mine  you'll  be  till  the  Last  Day  and  for  ever- 
more !  " 

She  felt  one  arm  slacken,  and  his  hand  seek 
hers.  Before  she  realised  what  he  did,  he  had 
snatched  the  wedding-ring  from  her  finger 
and  thrown  it  into  the  Linn. 

Once  more  he  laughed. 

"  Anabal !     Anabal !  .  .  .  Anabal,  my  joy  ! 

293 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

I  love  you.  ...  I  love  you.  ...  I  love  you. 
All  the  youth  of  my  life  is  upon  me  again.  I 
am  blind,  but  I  see  you  as  on  the  day  when 
you  quickened  with  new  life!  Dear,  O  my 
dear,  heart  of  me,  joy  of  me  !  Anabal,  listen ! 
I  am  Torcall !  All  is  forgotten :  all  the  weary 
years  are  gone !  Sweetheart,  this  is  my  heart 
against  your  heart!     Ah — h — hi" 

He  had  seized  her,  and  the  flames  of  his 
kisses  scorched  her  face.  Between  his  pant- 
ing, sobbing  cries,  and  her  choking  breath,  he 
buried  his  face  in  her  hair,  heedless  of  the 
grey  blight  upon  that  yellow  corn ;  and 
bruised  that  quivering  body,  whose  flesh  was 
still  so  warm,  so  firm,  young  long  after  the 
breath  of  age  on  the  hair,  in  the  eyes. 

Then  she  gathered  the  strength  that  was  in 
her.  With  a  fierce  blow  she  made  him  reel, 
so  that  he  nigh  slipped  and  fell. 

"  Murderer !  " 

A  blank  silence  came  upon  them.  Around, 
the  rush  of  the  water :  swift-sighing  it  seethed 
beyond,  with  hollow  roar  and  surge  in  the  linn 
below  where  they  stood.  Over  the  forest  lay 
a  faint  yellow  bloom:  the  moon  shining  upon 
it  from  behind  Ben  Iolair.  A  fern-owl 
churred  its  love-cry  through  the  warm,  fra- 
grant night.  A  thin,  impalpable  mist  obscured 
the   few  stars  that   shone,  but  the  splintered 

294 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

lance-rays  of  them  glistered  this  faint  exhala- 
tion of  the  earth. 

When  the  man  spoke,  his  voice  was  as 
though  frozen. 

"  It  is  a  lie." 

"  No  lie  is  it,  Torcall  Cameron ;  for  I  see 
the  naked  truth  in  your  soul." 

"It  is  a  lie." 

"  Where  is  my  man,  where  is  my  man  Fer- 
gus, whom  you  slew  ?  " 

"  I  slew  him  not." 

"  Liar !  Liar !  Even  here,  on  this  very 
spot,  on  this  very  night  years  agone,  he  came 
upon  his  death  at  your  hand !  " 

"Listen!  I  heard  you:  now,  hearken  to 
me.  .  .  .  On  that  night,  but  before  it  was 
dark,  we  met,  here.  It  is  true.  True  also 
that  there  was  fear  and  hate  between  us.  But 
as  God  hears  me,  as  God  sees  me,  as  God  hath 
stricken  me  blind  and  gloomed  the  bitter  life 
of  me,  I  did  not  put  his  death  upon  him !  " 

"  Anabal !  " 

Her  breath  came  hot  against  his  face. 

"  Anabal !  " 

No  word,  no  sign.  He  knew  by  the  pas- 
sage of  her  breath  that  she  looked  now  this 
way  and  now  that :  behind  him,  beside,  be- 
yond. 

She  saw  that  they  were  standing  now  on 

2Q5 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

the  extreme  of  the  slippery  ledge  that  over- 
hung the  seething  depths.  No  longer  did  she 
make  any  attempt  to  resist  him.  Death  called 
out  of  the  pool.  She  made  no  effort  to  save 
either  him  or  herself. 

"  Anabal !  " 

Mechanically  she  moved  her  arms  as 
though  to  free  herself.  She  felt  his  hold 
slacken. 

"  Anabal !    Do  you  yield  ?  " 

"  I  yield." 

Mechanically,  again,  she  leaned  forward 
and  kissed  him  on  the  breast.  The  next  mo- 
ment his  foot  slipped.  He  reeled,  staggered 
wildly.    Anabal  snatched  her  arm  away. 

Again  he  slipped  and  fell  forward.  He  was 
now  on  the  very  edge  of  the  ledge.  His  hand 
fell  upon  one  of  her  feet.  She  stooped  to 
push  aside  his  arm.  He  raised  it,  caught  at 
something,  gave  a  wild  cry,  and  shot  into  the 
dark,  with  heavy  plunge  and  splash. 

In  the  moonshine — for  the  yellow  bloom 
had  now  expanded  into  a  flood  of  rippling 
gold — she  saw  the  black  mass  of  his  body 
whirled  to  and  fro.  Once  the  white  face  was 
turned  to  her — a  blank  disc.  Twice,  thrice, 
she  saw  the  black  arms  move  above  the  seeth- 
ing caldron  in  a  strange,  fantastic  dance. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  as  from  a  bolt,  the  body 

296 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

was  shot  into  the  deep  pool  beyond  the  outer 
fang-like  rocks  of  the  Linn. 

Anabal  Gilchrist  turned,  the  foam  on  the 
water  not  more  wan  than  her  white  face. 

With  slow  steps  she  regained  the  heathy- 
ground.  She  did  not  look  back  once,  then, 
nor  as  she  clomb  the  long  slope  to  her  home. 


VII 

It  was  an  hour  before  midnight  when  Oona 
awoke.  So  often  had  she  slept  in  the  woods, 
through  the  hot  summer  nights,  that  there 
was  nothing  strange  or  terrifying  in  the 
blackness  of  darkness  about  her.  She  could 
smell  the  pungent  odour  of  the  bracken,  and, 
somewhere  near,  wild  mint.  The  keen  fra- 
grance of  the  pines  and  firs  everywhere  pre- 
vailed. 

Ah,  she  was  in  the  forest :  how  warm  and 
sweet  it  was !  Where  was  Nial  ?  Scarce 
more  than  this  drifted  through  her  mind; 
then  the  heaviness  of  sleep  came  upon  her 
again. 

The  night  waned.  Dawn  broke  upon  the 
eastern  hills.  Slowly  the  light  travelled  down- 
ward beyond  the  crests  of  the  mountains.  It 
reached   the    forest,   and    spread   an    unshim- 

297 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

mering  sheen  over  it,  like  the  silver  calm  on  a 
green  sea.  Then,  out  of  the  sky  a  marvellous 
flower  grew.  It  was  a  dusky,  rosy  grey  at 
first,  as  it  lifted  through  the  blue-black  heav- 
en, already  steel-blue  in  the  east.  Green  folds 
of  pink  uncurled  and  fell  languidly  on  each 
side :  drooping  petals.  There  was  a  stir  and 
quiver;  then  a  shaft  of  gold,  another,  and 
another.  Suddenly  it  was  as  though  the  heart 
of  the  flower  burst.  In  the  yellow  mist  and 
radiance,  wherefrom  tall,  waving  foliage  of 
golden  fire  moved  as  though  fanned  by  a 
wind  from  within,  a  cloud  of  glowing  flakes 
arose.  These  may  have  been  the  wild  bees 
that  make  the  honey  of  Magh  Mell,  or  the 
birds  of  Angus  Og,  beloved  youth-god  of 
the  yellow  hair.  Then  the  golden  heart  of 
the  miracle  swelled,  with  a  mighty  suspira- 
tion.  Petals  of  rose  and  gold-green  and  pale 
pink  as  of  shells  unclosed  from  it.  The  vast 
blue  flower  was  aureoled  now  with  an 
ascendant  glory. 

One  by  one  the  stars  melted  into  heaven. 
Low  in  the  south-west  a  planet  seemed  to  di- 
vide, then  to  close  again,  in  a  nebulous  gleam- 
ing haze.  Then  this  night-bloom  slowly  paled, 
dwindled,  and  sank  into  a  deep  gulf.  An  in- 
describable fragrance,  an  almost  inaudible 
rustling  sound — faint,  as  the  roar  of  the  rush- 

298 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

ing  world  is  faint  beyond  all  ears  to  hear — 
filled  the  air.  The  pulse  of  the  world  quick- 
ened. The  green  earth  sighed,  and  was 
awake. 

Through  her  sleep  Oona  heard  the  crood- 
ling  of  doves.  Then  a  bleating  fawn  in  a 
fern-covert  close  by  made  her  stir.  Sud- 
denly she  half-rose,  stared  about  her,  and  felt 
the  breath  of  the  cool  wind  that,  too,  had 
been  awakened  by  the  sun,  and  was  now  sigh- 
ing softly  through  the  pine-glades. 

Then  in  a  moment  there  came  upon  her  the 
remembrance  of  what  had  happened. 

With  a  cry  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  What 
of  her  foster-father?  Had  he  awaked  in  the 
gloaming  and  found  the  woman  Anabal  be- 
side him?  Had  he  made  peace,  or  was  his 
anger  even  now  brooding  terribly  ?  Who  had 
seen  him  home?  What  would  he  say — what 
would  Sorcha  say?  Perhaps,  even,  he  had 
fallen  into  the  Linn,  or,  it  might  be,  he  had 
tried  to  make  his  way  home  alone  through  the 
forest,  and  now  lay  somewhere  in  its  depths, 
blind  and  baffled. 

Thus  was  the  child  wrought.  But  what 
could  she  do?  she  wondered.  Should  she 
make  her  way  swiftly  through  the  forest  and 
up  Wester  Iolair  to  Mam-Gorm,  and  there 
see  if  her  foster-father  was   in  his  bed  and 

299 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

asleep?  What  would  he  say  and  do?  Once 
she  had  seen  him  in  a  passionate  rage,  and 
her  heart  shook  at  the  remembrance.  Per- 
haps he  would  kill  her.  Does  it  hurt  much 
to  be  killed  ?  she  wondered.  Then  she  thought 
of  Nial.  If  she  could  find  him,  he  could  dis- 
cover for  her  that  which  she  feared  to  seek 
herself.  Where  would  he  be?  For  nights  past 
he  had  not  been  seen  at  Mam-Gorm.  He 
might  be  high  upon  the  mountain,  perhaps  at 
Murdo's  remote  sheiling  on  Ben  Iolair,  by 
Sgorr  Glan.  He  might  be  at  the  cave,  Uav- 
an-teine :  the  great  hollow  cavern,  dry  even 
in  winter  weather,  which  lay  but  a  short  way 
above  the  Linn  o'  Mairg. 

Yes,  that  was  likeliest.  Nial  loved  the 
place.  There  he  might  sleep  where  no  dew 
nor  rain  could  touch  him,  and  with  the  sound 
of  Mairg  Water  to  be  his  lullaby  through  the 
dark.  She  would  seek  him  there.  But  first 
she  would  go  to  the  Linn,  so  that  she  might 
know  that  her  foster-father  no  longer  lay  by 
the  stream-side. 

The  heart  of  the  birdeen  lightened  as  she 
walked  swiftly  through  the  dewy  fern.  She 
began  to  call  back  to  the  cushats  and  other 
birds  as  they  uttered  their  matin  cries.  Then 
she  laughed,  and  broke  into  snatches  of  song. 

The  light  was  streaming  down  the  Strath 

300 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

as  she  emerged  into  the  open  glade  above  the 
Linn.  Here,  among  the  trees  on  the  slope 
and  in  the  many  cavernous  rocks  and  bosky 
hollows,  deep  shadows  still  lingered.  It  would 
be  nigh  upon  an  hour  before  the  morning  twi- 
light waned  hence. 

A  glance  showed  her  that  there  was  no  one 
at  the  Linn.  She  ran  down  close  to  it,  and 
peered  eagerly  here  and  there,  on  either  side. 
There  was  no  one  visible.  With  a  sigh  of 
relief  she  was  about  to  step  forward  to  take 
a  sunrise  peep  into  the  Pool  below  the  Linn, 
for  the  great  salmon  she  had  never  yet  been 
able  to  descry,  when  she  stopped,  because  of 
the  croaking  of  a  raven. 

It  was  not  lucky  to  go  athwart  the  croaking 
of  a  fee-ach'  at  sunrise.  The  great  black  bird 
swung  on  an  outspread  bough  of  a  hazel, 
close  to  the  Kelpie's  Pool,  and  croaked  with 
harsh,  monotonous  reiteration.  Oona  stooped, 
lifted  a  stone,  and  threw  it  at  the  raven,  who 
watched  her  closely. 

"  Fitheach  !  fitheach  !  The  way  of  the  sun 
to  you  !     Be  off,  be  off !  " 

Croak!    croak! 

"  Black  fee-ach,  black  fee-ach,  go  where 
the  dead  are,  and  do  not  cross  my  way,  or  I 
will  put  a  rosad  upon  thee !  " 

Croak!     croak!     croak! 

301 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

Half  angry,  half  glad,  the  child  threw  an- 
other stone ;  then  turned,  leaped  from  stone 
to  stone  till  she  gained  the  grass  again,  and 
then  went  singing  low  toward  the  cave  called 
the  Uav-an-teine. 

The  arch  of  it  was  still  in  shadow,  and  the 
bracken  on  the  brow  of  the  arch :  though  the 
rowan  that  leaned  forward  into  the  air  bathed 
its  upper  branches  in  sunlight.  On  the 
smooth  thyme-set  sward  beyond,  the  yellow 
shine  lay;  so  warm,  that  the  butterflies  hov- 
ered in  and  out  of  the  golden  area. 

With  cautious  steps  Oona  advanced.  If 
Nial  were  there  she  wished  to  surprise  him 
while  he  slept. 

She  crawled  to  one  side  of  the  sunswept 
cave,  within  which  was  still  a  warm  dusk. 
Surely  that  was  the  sound  of  breathing? 
Yes;  she  could  hear  the  steady  rise  and  fall, 
faint  though  it  was.  With  a  smile  she  moved 
forward. 

Suddenly  she  stood  as  one  changed  into 
stone.  What  was  this:  what  did  it  mean? 
No  sign  of  Nial  was  there.  But,  among  dried 
bracken  and  dead  leaves,  blown  or  drifted 
there  in  autumnal  days,  and  forming  a  place 
of  rest  fit  for  the  weariest  deer  that  ever 
leaped  before  the  baying  hounds,  lay  two  fig- 
ures, clasped  in  one  another's  arms. 

302 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

For  a  moment  the  idea  flashed  across 
Oona's  mind  that  the  sleepers  were  Torcall 
and  Anabal.  Then  she  knew  who  they  were, 
for  who  had  such  a  mass  of  lovely  dark- 
brown  hair  as  Sorcha?  what  man  of  the 
Strath  had  the  curly  yellow  hair  of  Alan? 
So  that  was  where  the  lovers  met !  Once  or 
twice,  within  these  last  few  cloudless  days 
and  nights,  she  knew  that  Sorcha,  when  at 
length  the  restless  lapwings  had  ceased  their 
querulous  crying  in  the  moonlight,  had 
slipped  quietly  from  the  house.  She  knew, 
too,  that  once  at  least  Sorcha  did  not  return 
till  sunrise,  for  she  had  been  awake,  and 
had  risen,  and  had  seen  her  sister  moving 
slow  through  the  dew,  with  so  wonderful  a 
look  in  her  eyes,  so  beautiful,  so  strange,  that 
she  had  not  dared  to  speak,  and  had  fled  back 
to  her  bed,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat,  she  knew 
not  why. 

She  smiled,  and  pondered  how  best  to 
startle  them.  How  she  wished  Nial  were  here 
also,  so  that  he  might  laugh  when  Alan  and 
Sorcha  suddenly  awoke,  and  found  them- 
selves observed ! 

But,  as  she  looked,  the  change  that  had  al- 
ready been  at  work  in  her  of  late,  swayed 
her  mood   otherwise. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  leaned  against  the 

303 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

green  mossy  boulder  at  the  side  of  the  cave. 
For  a  while  she  stood  thus,  her  eyes  intent 
upon  the  lovers.  How  beautiful  Sorcha's 
face  was,  faint-flushed  like  that!  What  a 
new,  strange  light  upon  her  face !  And  Alan : 
how  tall  and  strong  he  was,  how  bonnie  the 
rippling  gold  hair  of  his  head !  His  fair  face, 
whiter  now  than  she  had  ever  seen  it,  seemed 
cut  out  of  stone,  so  sharp  were  the  outlines. 
Thus,  she  thought,  must  Angus  Og  seem: 
Angus,  the  fairest  youth  of  the  world,  whom 
none  sees  now,  for  he  is  of  the  Ancient  Peo- 
ple, who,  though  still  among  us,  are  invisible 
to  mortal  eyes.  Often  had  Sorcha  told  her 
of  him :  sure,  now,  this  was  he  ? 

Instinctively,  she  looked  to  see  if  white  birds 
hovered  anywhere.  For  the  olden  tale  said 
that  the  kisses  of  Angus  Og  became  white 
birds,  and  that  these  flew  abroad  continually, 
to  nest  in  lovers'  hearts  till  the  moment  came 
when,  on  meeting  lips  of  love,  their  invisible 
wings  should  become  kisses  again. 

No,  there  were  no  birds :  none,  at  least,  for 
her  eyes  to  see. 

The  hot  sunlight  moved  upon  her  bare  feet. 
Soon  it  would  reach  her  waist,  she  knew,  if 
she  stood  brooding  there:  and  when  it  did 
that,  the  glow  would  be  upon  the  face  of 
Alan,  and  he  would  awake. 

304 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

A  sudden  fantasy  took  her.  Almost  she 
had  laughed  aloud.  When  she  moved  into 
the  space  opposite  the  cave  it  was  as  though 
she  waded  in  sunshine.  Everywhere  in  the 
light  the  dew  shone,  filled  with  unburning 
fire. 

She  crossed  the  sunspace,  to  where  a  mass 
of  honeysuckle  drooped  over  a  wild  brier. 
With  deft  fingers  she  made  a  crown  of  this, 
starred  with  some  pink  wild-roses,  plucked 
from  a  low  bush  beyond  the  brier;  then  of 
the  dusky  yellow  honeysuckle  wove  a  gar- 
land. 

Decorated  thus,  and  with  sparkling  eyes, 
she  turned  and  faced  the  cave  again.  Sound- 
lessly she  began  to  dance. 

At  first  it  was  the  mere  joy  of  her  laughing 
glee.  Soon,  she  hoped  Alan  or  Sorcha  would 
wake.  Ah,  then,  how  she  would  laugh,  to  see 
them  stare  confusedly  at  her,  dancing  there  in 
the  sunlight ! 

But  as  she  wavered  to  and  fro  in  the  sun- 
sea,  a  dreamy  pleasure  moved  her  to  half- 
forgetfulness  of  where  she  was.  A  mavis  on 
the  rowan  over  the  cave  began  to  sing,  the 
strange  late  song  that  sometimes  wells  forth 
in  silent  August ;  at  first,  long,  sweet,  vibrant 
notes,  then  a  swift  gurgling  music,  and  then, 
as  his  heart  warmed   against  the  sun,  more 

305 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

and  more  wildly  sweet,  till  the  hot  air  swung 
with  the  intoxication  of  his  rapture. 

More  and  more,  too,  was  Oona  rapt  as  she 
wavered  to  and  fro.  The  swift  rhythm  of  her 
joyous  dance  wrought  her  as  with  a  spell.  A 
dream  lav  in  her  eyes,  now  set  far  awav — far 
away,  where  Angus  Og  was,  and  where  the 
sun  rose  and  the  moon  waxed  and  waned  to 
the  singing  of  the  white  merle. 

The  sunlight  seemed  to  drift  her  onward, 
as  though  she  were  a  dancing  wave  on  the 
forehead  of  the  tide.  Soon  she  was  past  the 
cave,  and  still,  as  the  sunbeams  flickered,  she 
leaped  and  swayed,  rapt  in  an  ecstasy  beyond 
thought  or  heed. 

Suddenly,  the  thrush  ceased.  There  was  a 
whirr  of  wings:  then  a  sharp,  quickly  re- 
peated strident  cry. 

Another  second,  and  Oona  was  a  laughing 
child  again,  crouched  low  in  the  bracken. 
Alan  or  Sorcha  was  awake,  and  had  stirred ! 

Ah,  no,  she  thought,  she  would  not  let  them 
see  her  now.  True,  they  might  hear  her, 
where  she  lay  panting  like  a  young  bird  es- 
caped from  a  hawk !  As  soundlessly  as  she 
could,  for  her  quick  breathing  and  the  rustle 
of  the  bracken,  she  half-crawled,  half-ran, 
back  the  way  she  had  come.  Soon  she  was 
safe,  for  the  pines  enclosed  her,  and  then  the 

306 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

beeches  and  birks  near  the  water-slope.  From 
behind  a  vast  beech-bole  she  watched  to  see 
if  she  were  pursued,  or  seen.  But  no  one 
came.  All  was  as  before :  only,  the  thrush  did 
not  venture  back  to  the  rowan,  which  now 
threw  its  flickering  fingerlike  shadows  on  the 
smooth  turf  below,  in  front  of  the  cave. 


VIII 

Already  the  breath  of  the  day  was  wind- 
lessly  hot. 

Flushed  with  her  dancing  in  the  sunlight, 
and  with  the  languor  of  August  in  her  blood, 
Oona  listened  eagerly  to  the  cool  sound  of  the 
running  of  Mairg  Water. 

The  next  moment  she  was  free  of  her 
scanty  raiment,  and  was  by  the  streamside. 
As  she  stood  among  a  cluster  of  yellow  irises, 
the  sunlight  lay  upon  the  gold  of  her  hair  and 
the  glowing  ivory-white  of  her  body,  and  then 
seemed  to  spill  in  yellow  fire  among  the  tall 
blooms  about  her  feet.  A  faint  green  glim- 
mer from  the  emerald  iris-sheaths  dusked  the 
small  white  thighs. 

A   leap   like   a   fawn,   and   she   was    in    tin 
water.        A      hundred      miniature      rainbows 
gleamed  in  the  dazzle  of  spray  as  she  splashed 

3°7 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

to  and  fro,  after  she  had  come  to  the  surface 
some  yards  downstream.  What  joy  it  was  to 
feel  the  cool  brown  water  laving  her  body: 
to  dive  and  swim  like  an  otter :  to  float  slow- 
ly with  the  current  under  overhanging  foli- 
age, and  see  the  young  sedge-warblers  in  the 
reeds  or  among  the  water-willows,  or  to  look 
up  at  the  curving  boughs  of  a  birch  or  rowan, 
deep  green  against  the  deep  blue !  Then  the 
wonder  and  beauty  to  rest  with  outspread 
arms,  and  breast  against  the  flow:  to  stare 
down  into  the  mirroring  depth,  and  see  the 
flickering  feathers  of  the  quicken  and  the  red 
rowan-berries  marvellously  real  and  near, 
with  lovely  shadow-birds  flitting  to  and  fro 
among  the  shadow-branches,  and,  strangest  of 
all,  another  white  Oona  drifting  like  a  phan- 
tom through  that  greenshine  underworld! 

When  she  swung  round  suddenly,  and  held 
herself  back  against  the  downflow,  as  an  otter 
half-alarmed  will  do,  it  was  not  because  she 
was  drifting  too  near  the  "  race  "  just  above 
the  cataract.  A  strange  sound  came  from  the 
Linn,  or  beyond  it.  The  noise  of  the  water 
was  in  her  ears,  and  she  could  not  hear  dis- 
tinctly: but  surely  that  noise  was  the  cry  of 
one  in  sorrow,  and,  at  any  rate,  human. 

With  a  swift  movement  she  slid  to  the  bank, 
caught  at  a  tuft  of  flowering  sedge,  and  then 

308 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

stood,  dripping  and  all  agleam  in  the  sunlight, 
while  with  inclined  head  she  listened  intently. 

Now  she  could  hear  more  distinctly:  cer- 
tainly some  one  was  by  or  near  the  Linn.  The 
noise  of  the  churned  waters  rose  and  fell  in  a 
long,  wavering,  unequal  sigh ;  and  in  one  of 
the  downward  hushes  her  keen  ears  caught 
tones  and  even  words  she  fancied  she  recog- 
nised. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment  as  to  whether 
to  run  back  for  the  handful  of  clothes  she  had 
left  upstream,  but  then  bethought  her  that  it 
was  only  Nial  and  no  stranger  who  might 
throw  stones  at  her  as  a  kelpie — as  some  boys 
from  the  Strath,  who  at  Beltane  had  been 
burning  small  fires  and  cooking  wild-birds' 
eggs,  had  done  many  weeks  agone  at  Nial.1 

1  In  many  parts  of  the  Highlands  it  is  still  the 
wont  of  children  at  Beltane  (May  Day)  to  light 
fires  in  woods  or  on  rocky  spurs,  and  there  cook 
eggs,  or  play  other  pranks,  sometimes  very  fantastic 
ones.  These  meaningless  observances  are  a  sur- 
vival of  the  days  of  Druidic  worship.  Beltane 
means  the  sacred  fire.  Baal,  heal,  or  bel  is  not  the 
actual  Gaelic  word  for  the  Sun,  or  the  Sun-god: 
though  the  Druids  may  have  had  Baal  from  the 
Phoenician  mariners  who  came  to  Ireland.  The 
ancient  Celtic  word  is  bea'utl,  "the  life  of  every- 
thing," "the  source  of  everything."  Beal  (pron.  bel) 
and  teine,  "fire,"  give  "Beltane" — the  Festival  of  the 
Sun. 

3C>9 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

How  often,  in  her  wanderings  with  Nial,  she 
had  bathed,  to  his  wonder  and  awe  at  her 
white  beauty,  her  daring,  her  skill !  As  for 
him,  though  he  loved  the  running  water  al- 
most with  a  passion,  nothing  would  induce  him 
to  enter  it,  except  when  alone  and  in  the  dim 
light.  As  a  boy  he  had  been  as  much  at  home 
in  it  as  any  creature  of  the  river.  But  once, 
after  he  had  come  to  know  Oona,  and  to  find 
in  her  the  one  person  in  the  world  whose  soul 
did  not  loom  too  infinitely  remote  above  his 
drear  loneliness  of  spirit,  he  had  leaped  one 
dead-calm  noon  into  the  water ;  and  there  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  realised,  in  the  phan- 
tom which  swam  with  him  or  beneath  him, 
the  misshapen  ugliness  of  his  body,  the  sav- 
agery of  his  distorted  head  and  features.  From 
that  day  he  had  never  entered  the  stream,  save 
at  late  dusk  or  on  moonless  nights. 

So  with  swift  steps,  which  left  small  pads 
of  damp  upon  the  rock-ledges,  Oona  ran 
toward  the  great  boulder  which  overhung  the 
cataract. 

As  she  passed  the  place  where,  a  few  hours 
ago,  she  had  left  her  foster-father  and  the 
woman  Anabal,  she  glanced  here  and  there  for 
any  trace  of  either  she  might  not  have  seen 
before.  The  next  moment  she  caught  sight 
of  Nial. 

310 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

She  watched  him  curiously.  What  did  it 
mean?  she  wondered.  He  was  crouching, 
with  his  back  to  her,  on  the  extreme  of  the 
ledge  overlooking  the  Kelpie's  Pool — that 
deep  caldron  which  received  all  that  was  at 
last  disgorged  from  the  maelstrom  of  the  Linn. 
His  head  was  bent  forward,  and  sometimes 
he  leaned  on  his  hands,  and  sometimes  swayed 
backward  or  sideways. 

What  startled  her  more  were  the  strange, 
wild,  barbaric  words  that  Nial  was  chanting, 
with  thin,  hoarse,  monotonous  wail.  What 
was  this  rune  he  chanted  ?  Why  did  he  crouch 
there,  chanting  and  swaying,  swaying  and 
chanting? 

Sometimes  he  ceased  for  a  few  moments 
that  crooning,  mourning,  appealing,  inexpli- 
cable chant,  and  appeared  to  be  speaking,  and 
to  gesticulate  as  he  spoke. 

Fantastic  thoughts  flashed  through  the 
child's  brain.  Perhaps  it  was  the  kelpie  who 
was  trying  to  lure  Nial  to  her  arms ;  or  may- 
hap Nial  had  seen  her,  and  was  putting  a 
rosad  upon  her.  She  knew  that  the  people  of 
the  Strath,  and  even  Murdo  the  shepherd — in 
truth,  Alan,  too,  and  perhaps  Sorcha,  though 
she  would  not  say  it — believed  that  the  elf-man 
was  in  league  with  all  the  mysterious  or 
dreadful   creatures   of  the   shadow,   from   the 

311 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

harmless  "  guiclfolk  "  of  the  hill-hollow  to  the 
yellow-clad  demon-woman  who  drove  her 
herd  of  deer  and  sang  her  death-song,  and  to 
the  dark  and  terrible  kelpie  who  lurked  in  the 
deep  pool  in  that  wild  place  beyond  the  Linn 
o'  Mairg.  Or,  again,  Nial  might  be  uttering 
some  incantation:  or  be  at  his  old  quest,  the 
seeking  of  his  lost  soul. 

Surely  it  must  be  that,  she  thought,  as 
soundlessly  she  approached  him. 

Within  the  last  minute  or  two  a  change  had 
come  over  him.  Every  now  and  then  he 
raised  his  head,  often  clasping  and  unclasping 
his  hands,  swaying  to  and  fro  the  while,  and 
speaking  or  chanting  rapidly,  with  wild, 
scarce  coherent  words.  He  was  as  one  in  an 
ecstasy.  Oona,  for  the  first  time,  feared  him. 
She  stood,  only  a  few  yards  behind  him  now, 
and  listened. 

i'Ochan,  ochone,  arone!  and  so  fair  too,  and  so  fair! 
O  white  you  are  as  the  canna  that  floats  in  the  breeze, 
Or  as  the  wool  of  the  young  lamb  that  Murdo  found 

dead  in  the  heather, 
Or  as  the  breast  of  Sorcha,  or  as  Oona,  little  Oona! 
O,  O,  arone,  arone,  Death  of  me,  Woe! 
Oh,  white  too  and  fair,  and  I  black  as  the  wet  peats, 
Black  and  ugly,  so  that  even  the  deer  know, 
And  Fior  and  Donn  and  all  the  dogs 
Think  me  no  more  than  a  sheep,  than  the  kye,  ochan, 

ochone! 

312 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

But  oh,  it's  dead  you  are  and  drowned,  Anam,  my 

Soul! 
And  it's  there  you  lie  .   .   .  grey  and  still  .   .   .  with 

.  .  .  and  you  laugh  at  me,  maybe  .  .  . 
And  it  may  be  you  are  the  shadow  only  that  will  go 

if  I  leap  at  you! 
.   .   .  and  hair  like  mine  thick  with  dew  .  .  . 
Or  .   .  .  the  kelpie  .  .  . 
And  true  it  was,  with  the  fee-ach,  and  the  feannag,  and 

the  corbie, 
The  corbie,  the  hoodie-craw,  and  the  raven!" 

At  these  words  Oona  glanced  swiftly  to 
right  and  left.  Nowhere  had  she  heard  again 
the  croaking  of  the  raven,  and  now  she  could 
descry  neither  of  Nial's  three  birds  of  omen. 
But  just  as  her  gaze  was  wandering  back  to 
the  dwarf,  she  caught  sight  of  the  fitheach 
further  downstream,  perched  upon  a  dead 
branch  near  some  rocks,  and  even  as  she 
looked  she  heard  its  harsh,  savage  croak! 
croak! 

"Ay,  ay,  roc,  Fee-ach,  roc!  Dean  roc  ail, 
dean  rocail!  "  began  Nial  again,  with  a  wild 
gesture.  .  .  . 

"Nial!    Nial!" 

He  ceased  all  movement,  all  sound,  as 
though  smitten  into  silence.  Her  fear  par- 
tially overcome,  now  that  she  had  gathered 
from  his  words  that  he  thought  he  had  found 
his  soul  at  last,  but  that  it  was  dead — yet  with 

V3 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

a  dread  in  her  heart  because  of  the  thing  that 
lav  there  in  the  pool,  whether  alive,  dead,  or 
asleep,  or  treacherously  assuming  life — she 
called  again,  and  more  loudly: 

"  Nial !     Nial !  " 

Slowly  he  looked  round.  A  bewildered 
terror  in  his  eyes  waned.     It  was  only  Oona. 

"Nial,  Nial-mo-gbraidh,  what  is  it?" 

"  Hush,  mo-muirnean,"  he  muttered,  beck- 
oning to  her  to  creep  close  to  him.  The 
slight  breeze  that  had  sprung  up  for  its  brief 
life  crept  along  the  stream,  and  whispered 
along  the  grass  and  in  the  hot-smeViing  fern. 
The  murmurous  sound  of  it  made  the  child 
glance  apprehensively  behind  her.  She 
dreaded  the  elfin  footsteps  that  folk  said 
could  be  heard  at  times  near  Nial. 

"What  is  it,  dear  Nial?" 

"  Ssh!  Hush!  Come  here:  look  J  .  .  . 
look !  "  he  whispered. 

Gently  she  stole  beside  him,  leaned  over 
the  ledge,  and  stared  down  into  the  pool.  A 
mere  breath  of  the  breeze  ruffled  the  surface, 
and  all  she  could  see  was  a  dark  mass  with 
a  dusky  white  splatch,  looming  shadowily 
through  the  amber  water,  and  strangely  dis- 
torted by  the  silver  shimmer  caused  by  the 
wind-eddy,  which  came  and  went  round  the 
circuit  of  the  pool  like  a  baffled  bird. 

314 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"What  is  it?  Who  is  it?  What  is  it, 
Nial?" 

"  Hush,  do  not  speak  so  loud !  It  is  my 
soul." 

"Your  soul,  Nial?" 

"  Ay,  true.  Sure  it  is  my  soul.  All  night  I 
was  in  the  woods,  and  I  heard  a  tap-tapping 
going  ever  before  me,  and  at  dawn  it  led  me 
down  by  the  Mairg,  and  then  the  spirit  flew 
away  before  me,  and  the  annir-choiUc  was  just 
like  a  woodpecker !  And  when  it  flew  up  by 
the  Linn,  I  .  .  ." 

"  Whisper  louder,  Nial !     I  can't  hear." 

"  When  it  flew  up  by  the  Linn,  I  saw  it 
change  into  a  curlew,  and  it  wheeled  over  the 
Linn  and  called  cian-cian-cianalas,  and  then  I 
was  afraid,  though  the  annir-choille  that  was 
like  a  woodpecker  had  made  hope  to  me  of 
finding  my  soul." 

"Who  is  the  annir-choille,  Nial?" 

He  gloomed  at  her  silently.  Then  in  a  con- 
strained voice,  and  with  averted  eyes : 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  I  know  nothing.  I 
am  Nial." 

"  But  what  have  you  been  told  ?  " 

"  They  call  her  the  wood-maid — the  tree- 
maid." 

"Ah-h!  .  .  .  and   Nial  .  .  ." 

"  But  when  I  came  near,  the  curlew  flew 

315 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

away.  Then  it  was  that  I  looked  into  the 
pool.  And  then,  and  then  it  was,  Oona-mo- 
run,  that  I  saw  my  soul  lying  here — big  as 
a  man's  soul  should  be,  and  with  a  face 
as  white  as  yours ;  ay,  a  fair,  good  body 
like  Alan's,  an'  with  clothes  on,  too — dark, 
beautiful  clothes;  an'  the  hands  of  him  that 
moved  about  were  white;  an'  .  .  .  oh,  Oona- 
birdeen,  look  you  now,  and  see  if  it  is  not  as 
I  say !  " 

The  awed  child  stared  into  the  brown 
depths,  where  the  surface  was  still  ruffled  sil- 
very here  and  there,  with  a  glinting,  glancing 
shimmer  that  made  all  things  below  shiftily 
uncertain. 

''Do  you  see  it,  Oona?"  cried  an  eager 
whisper  at  her  ear. 

"Ay,  sure." 

"Oona,  Oona,  is  it  dead?  Oona,  birdeen, 
Oona-mo-graidh,  it  may — it  may  be  living! 
O  Oona,  the  white  soul  o'  me — white  as  you, 
my  fawn !  " 

The  blue  eyes  glanced  up  from  the  pool, 
and  at  the  speaker.  She  looked  at  him,  then 
downward  again. 

"  Nial !  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  yes,  Oona  .  .  ." 

'  The  wood-maid  has  been  playing  with 
you." 

316 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  No,  no,  no — that  is  not  a  true  word  on 
your  lips !  " 

"  Sure,  a  true  thing  it  is.  Look,  Nial ;  see 
how  big  it  is.  The  white  face  of  it  is  yonder 
by  the  salmon-hole,  and  one  foot  is  moving 
against  the  rock  below  us !  " 

"  And  what  of  that !  Sure,  it  is  a  beautiful 
soul,  dead  or  alive ;  and  big  as  a  man's  should 
be,  and  fair  and  white  and  strong !  " 

"  Nial.  .  .  .  Nial  ...  it  may  be  alive,  for 
I  see  its  hands  moving  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  but  " — 
and  here  tears  came  into  the  child's  eves,  and 
her  voice  shook  with  sorrow  for  her  hapless 
friend — "  but  .  .  .  oh,  Nial  ...  so  big  a 
soul  will  never  be  able  to  creep  into  your 
body  .  .  .  for  you  are  small,  dear,  small,  and 
— and  .  .  .  an'  then  it  is  so  big  and  strong !  " 

Alas,  the  pity  of  it!  Never  once  had  Nial 
thought  of  this ;  never  had  he  dreamed  that 
so  large  a  soul  could  not  get  into  his  dwarfish, 
misshapen  frame. 

He  stared  in  wild  amaze,  first  at  Oona,  then 
at  the  drowned  thing  in  the  water — his  soul, 
or  a  phantom,  or  a  body,  or  mayhap  the  kel- 
pie, he  knew  not  which,  now — then  at  Oona 
again.  A  fierce  pain  was  in  his  eyes.  He  bit 
his  lip,  in  the  way  he  did  whenever  Mani- 
Gorm  struck  him — a  thing  that  had  not  been 
for   months   past.      A   little    rivulet   of  blood 

317 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

trickled  into  his   thin   matted  beard,  tangled 
and  twisted  this  way  and  that  like  a  goat's. 

"  Nial !    Nial !  "  moaned  Oona  pitifully. 

"  Ay,  it  is  true  .  .  .  that  is  a  true  thing  that 
you  will  be  saying,  Oona.  Sure,  it  would  need 
to  be  a  soul  as  small  as  your  own  that  would 
do  for  poor  Nial." 

"  No,  no,  Nial !  "  cried  the  child  comfort- 
ingly, "bigger  than  mine,  really,  really — yes, 
and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  fatter !  " 

A  sob  shook  his  heavy  frame.  Oh,  the  long 
seeking,  and  the  near  goal,  and  the  bitter  fu- 
tile finding!  Still,  Oona's  sympathy  was 
sweet.  Dear  birdeen  that  she  was,  to  say  he 
would  have  a  bigger  soul  than  hers,  bigger 
and  fatter  too !  But,  no,  he  thought — no,  bet- 
ter to  have  one  the  same  as  Oona's,  for  all  he 
was  so  much  older  and  bigger  and  stronger 
than  she  was. 

"  Ah,  Oona-muirnean,  if  I  could  only  find 
my  soul  at  all — anywhere,  anywhere !  " 

"  But  you  will  find  it,  Nial !  You  will  find 
it !  Sorcha  told  me  that  you  are  sure  to  find 
it.  Never  mind  what  they  say  down  there  in 
the  Strath.  What  do  they  know  about  souls? 
And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Nial ! " 

"  Yes,  my  birdeen." 

"  If  .  .  .  if  .  .  .  you  can't  find  your  soul 
anywhere — and  all  this  summer  we'll  go  seek- 

3i8 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

ing,  seeking,  for  it,  till  we  have  listened  at 
every  tree  in  the  forest  and  on  the  mountain- 
side— if  you  can't  find  it  anywhere,  /  am  go- 
ing to  marry  you! " 

Nial  looked  at  the  child  bewildered.  He 
knew  little  of  what  marriage  was,  save  that  in 
the  Strath  two  married  people  lived  in  one 
house,  and  that  the  woman  was  called  by  the 
name  of  her  man,  and  that  they  were  sadder, 
and  led  duller  lives — so  at  least  it  seemed  to 
him.  Sure,  it  would  be  for  pleasure  that  he 
and  Oona  should  have  a  cot  of  their  own, 
though  he,  and  she  too  for  that,  preferred  the 
pinewood ;  and  a  thing  for  laughter  that  she, 
the  bit  birdeen  Oona,  should  be  called  Bean 
Nial! 

'  Why  would  you  be  marrying  poor  Nial, 
Oona   my   doo  ?  " 

'  Because  you  would  then  have  half  my 
soul.  Yes,  yes,  Nial !  don't  shake  your  head 
like  that ;  I  know  you  would.  Sorcha  told  me 
it  was  in  the  Book." 

For  the  moment  the  outcast  forgot  what  lay 
in  the  pool.  Of  three  things  he  stood  ever  in 
awe.  First,  Torcall  Cameron,  the  man  of 
men.  Second,  the  Book,  which  was  a  mys- 
tery, and  held  all  the  sians  and  rosads,  all  the- 
spells  and  incantations  in  the  world,  and,  as  he 
had  heard,  was  full  of  "  living  words,"  though 

319 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

never  had  he,  being  soulless,  seen  any  coming 
or  going  to  it,  like  bees,  where  it  lay  on  the 
shelf  above  TorcalFs  bed.  Third,  the  in- 
scrutable powers  which  worked  somewhere, 
somehow,  behind  Torcall,  before  which  even 
he,  Mam-Gorm,  was,  almost  incredible  though 
it  seemed,  as  mist  before  the  wind. 

When,  therefore,  he  heard  Oona  speak  of 
the  Book,  his  awe  held  him  for  a  moment 
spellbound.  Never  had  he  so  much  as 
dreamed  that  his  name  was  even  mentioned 
there  at  all.  The  wonder,  the  mystery  of  it, 
almost  took  his  breath  away.  What  an  ill 
thing,  then,  that  word  of  the  preaching-man 
he  had  met  once  in  the  Strath,  who  had  told 
him,  in  answer  to  his  asking,  that  he,  Nial, 
could  have  no  name  in  the  Book  of  Life,  be- 
cause he  was  unbaptised,  and  a  godless  heath- 
en, and  a  soulless  elf-man  at  that !  And  now — 
now — Sorcha  had  seen  his  name  in  the  Book 
— ay,  and  not  in  any  poor,  small  Strath  Bible, 
but  in  the  great  Bioball  that  was  Torcall  Cam- 
eron's own,  up  at  Mam-Gorm,  on  the  hillside 
of  Iolair! 

But  of  that  mystery  he  was  to  hear  no  more 
then  and  there.  A  cry  had  come  from  Oona, 
a  cry  of  such  terror,  with  moan  upon  moan, 
that  his  heart  within  him  was  as  a  flame  in  a 
windy  place. 

320 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

What  had  happened  to  the  child?  Was 
there  a  spell  upon  her  ?  he  wondered ;  was  that 
down  there  in  truth  no  other  than  the  treach- 
erous, quiet-seeming,  murderous  kelpie ! 

He  saw  that  she  was  shivering  all  over; 
that  her  body  was  as  pallid  as  her  white  face. 

Not  a  word  came  from  her.  She  kneeled 
forward,  staring  stonily  into  the  pool. 

"  Oona !  Oona !  "  he  whispered  chokingly, 
terrified  beyond  further  power  of  speech. 
Without  averting  her  gaze,  she  slowly  raised 
an  arm  and  pointed  at  what  had  hitherto  been 
but  a  blurred  figure  at  the  bottom  of  the 
water.  The  arm,  the  pointing  hand,  remained 
thus,  as  though  paralysed. 

Nial  bent  over  the  ledge.  The  slight  breeze 
had  now  passed.  Not  a  breath  shook  the 
feather-leaf  of  a  rowan.  The  sunflood  poured 
out  of  the  east  upon  the  shimmering  land. 
Though  but  an  hour  after  sunrise,  the  heat 
palpitated.  For  the  first  time  that  morning 
there  was  no  wind-eddy  upon  the  pool.  The 
brown  water  was  as  lucid  as  a  mirror. 

The  thing — corpse,  or  soul,  or  kelpie — had 
begun  to  move.  It  was  slowly  rising  to  the 
surface. 

He  shuddered.  This,  then,  was  the  cause 
of  Oona's  fear.  Yet,  even  as  this  thought 
passed  through  his  brain,  he  knew  that  there 

321 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

was  some  other  reason  for  the  frozen  agony 
of  the  child. 

The  body  ascended  gradually,  face  down- 
ward, the  arms  trailing  stiffly  beneath  it.  One 
foot  was  still  caught  by  the  weeds,  which  had 
caught  it  as  in  a  net.  With  a  slow  gyration 
the  corpse  swung  round,  face  upward.  The 
weed-thrall  gave  way.  The  drowned  rose 
with  outstretched  arms. 

Oona  shrieked,  then  sank  back,  cowering, 
and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  Nial ! 
Nial  neither  thought  nor  felt;  he  was  stunned 
by  a  blank,  bewildering  amaze. 

For  what  he  saw,  and  what  Oona  had  seen, 
was  the  drowned  body  and  the  dead  face  of 
.  .  .  Torcall  Cameron ! 

In  the  awful,  throbbing  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  turmoil  of  the  Linn  and  by  the  inces- 
sant moaning  of  the  child,  the  dwarf  stared 
as  at  some  horrible  impossibility. 

It  could  not  be !  Mam-Gorm,  of  all  men  in 
the  world !  Mam-Gorm,  the  great,  strong, 
stern  man  of  the  hills !  no,  no,  no — sure,  it 
could  not  be !  Moreover,  as  he  knew,  Mam- 
Gorm  never  left  the  hillside ;  in  all  the  time 
he  had  known  him,  he  had  never  come  nigh 
the  Linn  o'  Mairg,  nor  even  near  Mairg 
Water,  and  how  could  he  be  there?  And 
would  not  Oona  for  sure  have  seen  him  that 

322 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

very  morning  in  his  own  bed  belike  ?  Besides 
.  .  .  Mam-Gorm  ...  it  was  as  though  the 
preaching-man  were  to  cry  out,  "  There  is  no 
God! " 

At  his  ear  he  heard  a  moaning  whisper: 
"  It  is  my  doing;  it  is  my  doing." 

"  Oona,  Oona-lassie,  is  it  mad  that  you  will 
be !  " 

"  O  Nial,  Nial,  Nial !  it  is  of  me,  this  thing ! 
Ay,  sure — ay,  sure  !  O  arone !  arone  !  it  was 
I  who  left  him  sleeping  nigh  the  Linn  last 
night,  thinking  to  make  peace  between  him 
and  the  woman  Anabal  that  is  Alan's  mother ! 
And  oh,  oh,  she  has  gone  away  in  the  gloam- 
ing not  seeing  him,  and  he  will  be  for  going 
home  when  he  wakes,  and  will  be  calling 
Oona,  Oona,  Oona,  and  I  not  be  hearing  him, 
for  I  was  away  in  the  wood,  with  the  fear 
upon  me !  And  then  he  will  be  moving 
through  the  dark,  and — and — O  Nial,  Nial! 
He  is  drowned,  drowned,  and  the  water  is  on 
him  because  of  me!    Nial!  Nial !  " 

The  child  swayed  to  and  fro  in  her  pas- 
sionate grief.  A  new  fear  came  upon  Nial: 
that  she  might  throw  herself  into  the  pool,  to 
be  drowned  even  as  her  foster-father  was. 

But  at  that  moment  both  were  hushed  into 
staring  silence. 

Slowly    the    corpse    began    to    sink    again. 

3?3 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

Down,  down  it  went,  leaning  forward  more 
and  more,  till  it  seemed  as  though  it  were 
standing  upright  on  some  unseen  ledge  of 
rock.  Then,  gradually,  it  revolved  further, 
till  once  more  it  hung  suspended  in  the  depths, 
face  downward,  and  with  stiff  arms  adroop 
beneath. 

Without  further  gyration,  motionlessly  it 
seemed,  the  body  sank,  till  it  became  blurred, 
obscure,  shapeless.  Then  there  was  no  more 
of  it  than  a  black  shadow  far  down  in  the 
brown  depths. 

Oona  rose  to  her  full  height.  She  gave  a 
long  sigh,  one  short,  choking  sob.  Her  eyes 
stared  unwaveringly  at  nothing;  the  nails  of 
her  fingers  cut  the  small  clenched  hands.  The 
raven  on  the  dead  branch  beyond  the  pool, 
that  had  been  croaking  monotonously  ever 
since  she  had  first  heard  it,  became  suddenly 
still. 

Nial  rose  too.  He  knew,  without  word 
from  her,  without  thought  even,  what  she 
meant  to  do. 

"  Oona !  " 

She  did  not  glance  round,  but  he  saw  her 
throat  quiver. 

"  My  birdeen,  my  birdeen,  ah,  my  bonnie 
wee  fawn  !  Come  back,  come  back !  Sure,  it 
is  not  him  at  all !    It  is  the  kelpie,  Oona,  it  is 

324 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

the  kelpie !  "  When  the  words  came  from  her, 
hushed  and  strange,  he  knew  that  she  knew 
the  truth. 

"  I  will  be  going  .  .  .  now." 

"  Oona !  come  .  .  ." — then  in  a  flash  his 
arms  were  about  her  as  she  leaped,  and  with 
an  effort  that  nearly  hurled  both  into  the  pool 
he  swung  her  back  to  the  ledge. 

There  she  lay  on  the  grass-covered  rock, 
white  and  still.  Nial  bent  over  her,  moaning, 
trembling,  moaning. 

An  hour  later,  Murdo  the  shepherd,  coming 
down  from  the  mountain,  and  going  by  the 
Linn  o'  Mairg,  so  as  to  reach  Inverglas  by  the 
west  side  of  the  Strath,  heard  a  wild  barking 
of  his  dogs.  Through  the  heat-haze  he  stared 
indifferently,  then  curiously,  at  two  stooping 
figures. 

He  approached  the  pool  slowly.  The  dogs 
were  silent.  One  had  stopped,  and  was  snif- 
fing and  staring,  the  other  whined  at  his 
feet. 

Yes,  he  was  right,  he  muttered  ;  it  was  Nial 

.  .  and  Oona !     But  what  did  it  mean  ? 

Both  sat  silently  by  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  The 
wild,  fantastic,  shrunken  figure  of  Nial  was 
black  against  the  light.  He  seemed  as  though 
rapt,  spellbound.     The  child  was  naked,  her 

325 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

shoulder  reddening  under  the  flame  of  the 
sun.  He  could  see  her  strained,  streaming 
eyes. 

His  heart  beat  quick  with  a  vague  fear  as 
he  moved  toward  them.  He  stopped,  when 
Oona's  low,  irregular  sobbing  was  audible. 

Beside  him  the  collies  crouched,  whining. 

Nial  looked  round,  rose,  and  touched  Oona. 
She,  too,  rose ;  her  sobbing  breath  ceasing. 

"  Mam-Gorm  is  dead,"  said  Nial  simply ; 
"  he  is  dead — there." 


IX 


In  a  brief  space,  Murdo  learned  what  Nial 
could  tell  him.  For  all  his  shepherd-eyes, 
he  could  discern  nothing  in  the  pool  but  a 
vague  blur  of  darkness  far  down. 

What  was  he  to  do?  He  could  not  think, 
with  these  two  staring  at  him  there.  He  whis- 
pered to  Nial  that  he  would  be  back  shortly, 
that  he  was  going  upstream  to  where  Oona's 
clothes  were ;  adding  that  when  he  brought 
them  back  Nial  was  to  lead  the  little  lass  away, 
take  her  home,  find  and  tell  Sorcha. 

When,  some  minutes  later,  Murdo  returned 
with  the  small  bundle,  he  saw  that  the  child 
was  weary  with  heat  and  fatigue,  as  well  as 

326 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

with  what  she  had  endured.  There  would  be 
no  trouble  with  her. 

And  indeed,  when  once  she  was  in  her 
scanty  garb  again,  Oona  went  without  a  word. 
Nial  whispered  that  he  would  be  back  as  soon 
as  he  could;  and  would  bring  the  grey  horse 
with  him. 

The  last  Murdo  saw  of  them  was  a  mo- 
mentary glimpse  as  they  disappeared  among 
the  bracken,  under  the  pines.  The  elf-man 
was  carrying  the  sleeping  Oona  in  his  strong 
crooked  arms. 

The  shepherd,  who  had  betrayed  no  emo- 
tion as  yet,  stood  staring  into  the  pool.  A 
mist  came  into  his  eyes,  and  one  or  two  tears 
rolled  down  his  furrowed  face.  A  grim  sat- 
isfaction moved  into  his  mind,  along  with  his 
dull  pain ;  for  now  he  remembered  how  his 
father,  who  had  been  shepherd  on  Mam- 
Gorm  of  Iolair  before  him,  had  had  "  the 
sight  "  of  this  very  happening.  The  old  man 
had  been  laughed  at  in  the  Strath  ;  though,  by 
the  waterside,  he  had  thrice  seen  Mam-Gorm's 
wraith  rise  out  of  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  Now 
the  foolish  folk  down  there  would  not  be 
laughing. 

After  a  time  he  bethought  himself  that  Nial 
might  not  be  back  for  long.  It  was  nigh 
upon  noon,  and  he  wished  to  get  the  body 

3V 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

away  as  soon  as  might  be.  It  was  now  he 
remembered  that  Nial  could  not  tell  Sorcha, 
for  he  had  met  her  and  Alan  going  after  the 
kye  to  the  hill-pastures.  This  was  well,  mean- 
while. 

At  the  Ford  of  Ardoch  there  was  an  old 
boat  not  used  for  years  past,  save  by  himself, 
by  Sorcha,  or  by  Alan.  In  it  were  fishing- 
poles,  a  rope,  and  other  things  of  his  and 
Alan's.  They  would  serve  now,  he  muttered. 
So  once  more  the  gaunt,  plaided  shepherd 
strode  upstream,  mumbling,  as  he  went, 
through  his  red  tangled  beard,  and  with  his 
wild  hill-eyes  shining  with  the  thoughts  of  life 
and  death  that  were  slowly  filling  his  brain ; 
thoughts,  memories,  superstitious  fears,  and 
vague,  strange  phantasma  rising  from  the  dull 
ache  of  sorrow. 

To  his  ears  the  most  familiar  of  sounds,  the 
bleating  of  ewes  and  lambs,  came  down  from 
the  mountain  as  a  lamentable  cry.  That  night 
there  would  be  dread  in  his  heart,  because  of 
the  lonely  hillside,  and  the  wide  darkness, 
and  the  wraith  that  would  be  moving  through 
that  darkness. 

Soon  he  found  what  he  wanted,  and  speed- 
ily returned.  At  first  he  thought  he  would 
need  help,  but  after  a  time  he  decided  to  do 
what  he  could  himself.     To  one  of  the  long 

328 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

poles  he  fastened  his  shepherd  staff,  with  its 
strong  curved  cromak. 

The  sweat  poured  from  his  face  with  heat 
and  weariness  long  before  he  succeeded,  at 
last,  in  getting  a  grip  of  the  corpse.  But,  un- 
daunted by  failure  after  failure,  and  these 
even  after  he  had  first  caught  hold,  he  raised 
it  slowly  to  the  shelving  ledge  which  ran  out 
a  few  feet  below  the  surface.  The  rest  was 
easy.  He  slipped  the  rope  over  the  feet,  arms, 
and  waist ;  then  slid  the  body  along  the  slip- 
pery ledge,  and  so  with  a  rush  to  the  face  of 
the  pool,  and  thence  to  a  wide  cranny  in  the 
rock  beside  him. 

Sure,  there  was  no  mistake.  Mam-Gorm 
himself,  in  truth ;  for  all  he  was  so  quiet  and 
pale,  with  the  dark  brown  out  of  his  face  now, 
and  all  the  stern,  brooding  life  of  the  man  no 
more  than  an  already  nigh-forgotten  idle 
song. 

So  this  was  the  end  of  Torcall  Cameron  of 
Mam-Gorm.  There  had  been  none  prouder 
and  more  aloof  than  he  in  all  Strath  Iolair. 
Ay,  he  was  a  proud  man.  And  now  there 
was  an  end  of  it  all.  Sure,  it  was  a  bitter 
ending.  God  save  us  the  dark  hour  of  it. 
Ay,  the  dull  knock  and  the  muffled  voice  that 
come  soon  or  late,  in  the  mirk  of  day  or 
night,  at  the  soul-gate  of  each  of  us — Torcall 

329 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

mhic  Diarmid  had  heard  them.  .  .  .  Thus, 
over  and  over,  variously,  yet  ever  on  the  same 
lines,  Murdo  revolved  in  his  mind  the  passing 
of  Mam-Gorm. 

At  last,  to  his  satisfaction,  he  heard  the 
peculiar  cry  which  Nial  was  wont  to  give  as 
a  signal.  Then  followed  the  trampling  of  a 
horse:  finally  both  appeared,  coming  along  a 
stony  path  in  the  forest  that  in  winter  was  a 
clattering  watercourse. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  two  to  lift  the 
body  on  to  the  small,  shaggy  white  horse,  and 
there  to  secure  it ;  with  the  white  face  staring 
blankly  up  at  the  blue  sky,  the  open  eyes 
fronting  with  unwinking  gaze  the  pitiless 
glare  of  the  sun.  While  they  worked,  Nial 
told  how  he  had  carried  Oona  home,  and  laid 
her  on  Sorcha's  bed,  sound  asleep  and  warm. 
He  had  feared  to  leave  her  there  all  alone, 
lest  she  waked,  or  lest  evil  came  to  her  "  out 
of  the  shadow  " ;  but  he  did  what  he  could, 
and  that  was  to  take  down  the  great  Book 
from  the  shelf  by  the  bed  where  Torcall  Cam- 
eron would  sleep  never  again,  and  lay  it  at 
the  lassie's  feet.  Then  he  had  gone  out  to 
the  kailyard,  and  let  Donn  the  collie  leave  her 
two  pups  awhile,  and  had  given  her  a  shawl 
of  Sorcha's  to  smell,  and  then  had  sent  her 
up    the    mountain   to    seek    for    Mam-Gorm's 

330 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

daughter,  wherever  she  might  be  with  the 
sheep  and  kye. 

As  soon  as  all  was  ready,  the  crossing  of 
the  Mairg  Water  was  done  at  the  Ford,  and 
then  the  ascent  begun  to  Ardoch-beag.  Mur- 
do  stalked  in  front,  the  rope-bridle  looped 
over  his  arm ;  Raoilt,  the  white  mare,  stag- 
gered and  stumbled  after  him  up  the  craggy 
path.  Then  came  Nial,  his  shape  not  more 
fantastic  than  the  shadow  which  waxed  and 
waned  mockingly  before  him,  as  he  toiled  up- 
ward, with  bent  head  and  tear-wet,  quivering 
face.  Finally,  lagging  some  yards  behind, 
limped  Murdo's  two  collies. 

The  August  heat-wave  silenced  every  bird 
on  the  hillside.  Not  even  the  grouse  clut- 
tered. Far  away,  in  a  marshy  place,  there 
was  a  drumming  of  snipe. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  smell  of  honey- 
ooze  from  the  pale  ling  and  the  purple  bell- 
heather.  Now  and  again  there  was  the  sharp 
twang  in  it  of  the  bog-myrtle,  sweltering  in 
the  sunglow. 

The  thin  dust  rose  from  the  path,  or  even 
from  the  face  of  the  granite  rocks.  The 
shadows  of  the  wayfarers  lay  pale-blue  against 
the  hill  road,  when  the  path  widened  into  it. 
The  dogs  crawled,  panting,  their  long  tongues 
lolling   like    quivering,    bloody    snakes.     Nial 

33i 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

wearily  wagged  his  shaggy  peaked  head  to 
and  fro :  at  times,  too,  he  let  his  great  swollen 
tongue  fall  half  out  of  his  mouth,  as  though 
to  cool  the  thirst  of  it  against  the  parched 
air.  Poor  Raoilt  sweated  at  every  pore  of 
her  body,  while  dark  streaks  of  wet  ran  down 
her  flanks.  Murdo  showed  less  fatigue;  but 
his  weather-brown  face  had  become  deep  red, 
and  about  his  moist  brow  a  haze  of  midges 
hovered.  Quiet  and  cool,  one  only:  cool  and 
quiet,  the  rider  on  the  white  horse,  for  all  that 
his  face  was  as  baked  clay  in  the  yellow  glare, 
that  his  staring  eyes  were  upon  the  whirling 
disc  of  flame  in  the  zenith. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Murdo  saw  at  last  the 
cottage  of  the  Gilchrists,  sole  house  on  the 
easter  side  of  Tornideon. 

Not  a  word  had  he  said  hitherto  to  Nial  as 
to  the  taking  of  the  corpse  to  Ardoch-beag. 
If  the  dwarf  had  thought  of  a  destination  at 
all,  apart  from  Mam-Gorm,  it  was  doubtless 
of  the  minister's  house,  which  lay  three  miles 
beyond  Ardoch-beag,  at  the  far  end  of  Inver- 
■  glas. 

But  suddenly  he  waked  to  the  knowledge 
that  Murdo  was  off  the  road,  and  on  the  path 
leading  to  the  byres  of  the  widow  Anabal. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  ?  he  asked ;  but 
Murdo  would  not  hear.     As  they  stopped  at 

332 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

the  ring-stone,  between  the  byre  and  the  cot- 
tage, he  went  up  to  the  shepherd. 

"  Why  will  you  be  doing  this  thing,  Murdo 
MacMurdo?"   he   demanded. 

At  first  the  man  gloomed  upon  him,  then 
he  smiled  grimly. 

"  Wait." 

Having  said  this,  Murdo  strode  to  the  door- 
way of  the  cot.  He  knocked ;  there  was  no 
answer.  He  knocked  again ;  again  no  answer. 
Then  he  opened  the  door.  He  did  not  expect 
to  see  Alan,  but  he  was  sure  the  woman  Ana- 
bal  would  be  in.  There  was  no  trace  of  her. 
The  bed  had  not  been  slept  in.  The  peats 
were  black  in  the  fireplace.  Yet,  strange  to 
say,  an  open  Bible  lay  on  the  low  deal  table, 
and  on  the  near  page  was  a  pair  of  horn  spec- 
tacles. 

It  was  very  strange.  Well,  he  would 
search  everywhere,  both  but  and  ben,  out- 
houses and  byre  and  stable. 

There  was  not  even  a  dog  about  the  place. 

He  returned  to  Nial,  downcast. 

"  There  is  a  spell  upon  this  place,  Nial-of- 
the-woods.    I  wish  we  had  not  come." 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?  " 

"This,  man,  this — this — is  why!"  he  mut- 
tered savagely,  and  as  he  spoke  he  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  gold  ring. 

333 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  That  is  one  reason,  Nial-of-the-woods ! 
Look  you,  I  found  that  ring  in  a  crevice  in  the 
rocks  on  the  further  left  side  of  the  Linn  o' 
Mairg.  Look  you  again,  I  know  the  ring.  Do 
you  see  these  letters?  Ah,  well,  you  can't 
read,  poor  elfin-creature  that  you  are;  but  I'll 
tell  them  to  you.  They  are  F.  G.  and  A.  G. 
And  now  will  you  be  knowing  what  F.  G.  and 
A.  G.  are  for?  They  are  for  Fergus  Gilchrist 
and  Anabal  Gilchrist — and  this  ring  here,  that 
I  found  by  the  Linn  o'  Mairg,  is  the  zvedding- 
ring  of  Anabal  Gilchrist!" 

The  outcast  stared,  vaguely  impressed,  but 
without  understanding  what  Murdo  was  driv- 
ing at.  The  man  saw  he  was  puzzled,  so  with 
a  rough  gesture  he  pulled  him  over  to  the  near 
flank  of  the  mare.  "  And  here,  you  poor  fool 
— to  Himself  be  the  praise,  for  this  and  that! 
— is  the  other  reason.    Look  at  that!  " 

What  he  pointed  to  was  a  long  tress  of 
grey  hair,  grey-streaked  brown  hair,  firmly 
clutched  in  the  right  hand  of  the  dead  man. 

A  glimmering  of  Murdo's  meaning  came 
into  Nial's  mind.  He  glanced  at  the  shepherd, 
appalled. 

"  Ay,''  whispered  the  latter,  divining  his 
thought :  "  sure,  that  there  is  nothing  else  but 
a  tress  of  the  hair  of  the  woman  Anabal. 
And  you  be  telling  me,  Nial,  if  you  can,  what 

334 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

Anabal  Gilchrist  was  doing  last  night  or  to- 
day afore  dawn,  that  she  should  leave  her 
golden  wedding-ring  lying  by  the  Linn-side, 
and  that  a  tress  of  her  hair — and  there  is  none 
like  it,  no,  none  o'  that  witchy  grey-brown,  in 
all  the  Strath — should  be  held  even  now  in 
the  death-grip  o'  Torcall  Cameron  o'  Mam- 
Gorm?" 

"  And  that  is  why  you  have  come  here,  with 
.  .  .  with  .  .  .  him?" 

"  That  is  why." 

The  two  looked  at  each  other.  A  fierce 
anger  and  lust  of  revenge  burned  in  the  heart 
of  the  shepherd.  To  Nial  everything  was 
simply  a  horrible,  incomprehensible  mystery. 
But  Murdo  knew  something,  perhaps  more 
than  anyone  else,  of  what  had  lain  between 
Torcall  Cameron  and  Anabal  Gilchrist ;  what- 
ever the  outcast  knew,  or  vaguely  surmised, 
was  too  deep  down  in  his  mind  now  to  swim 
up  into  remembrance. 

It  was  Nial  who  broke  the  silence. 

"  What  of  Alan  ?  " 

'  The  curse  is  upon  him  too — to  the  Stones 
be  it  said!  " 

"  He  will  be  far  up  on  the  north   side  of 
Tornideon  ...  or  with  Sorcha  on  Iolair." 

"  The  woman  must  have  fled.  Or  .  .  .  ah, 
for  sure,  that  thought  was  never  coming  to 

335 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

me.  Nial,  my  man,  you  never  thought  o'  that, 
did  you?  You  never  thought  that  perhaps 
there  were  two  bodies  down  there  in  the  pool ! 
Ay,  for  sure,  for  sure :  Mam-Go rm  was  not 
the  man  to  die  alone !  " 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  Murdo,  perhaps  it  was  .  .  . 
perhaps  it  was  .  .  .  he  who  .  .  ." 

The  words  failed.  The  gaunt  shepherd 
looked  down  at  the  speaker,  frowning  darkly. 

"  May  be,  may  be,"  he  muttered  at  last.  "  If 
I  thought  that,  I  would  be  letting  him  lie  in 
his  own  house.  Nial,  see  that  no  word  o'  this 
gets  upon  your  lips  if  you  meet  anyone.  No 
one  must  think  that.  No  one  in  the  Strath 
must  think  an  evil  thing  o'  Mam-Gorm." 

Once  more  Murdo  left,  and  made  a  diligent 
search  everywhere.  When  he  came  back,  he 
was  muttering  constantly,  with  a  wild  look  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Did  you  hear  that?  "  he  asked  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"That?    What?    I  heard  nothing." 

"  Did  ye  not  hear  some  one  in  the  shadow 
ayont  the  byre  crying,  dan!  Cian!  Cian- 
alas!    Dubhachas!"1 

1  Pron.  Ke-an  !  Ke-an!  Keen-al-us  !  Doov-ach-us  ! 
To  Celtic  ears,  not  unlike  the  wailing  cry  of  the 
plover.  The  words,  moreover,  mean  For  long, 
ever  !    Melancholy  !  Gloom  !  The  word  jeadag  (pron. 

336 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  No,  no,"  murmured  Nial,  trembling ;  "  I 
saw  the  shadow  of  a  bird  on  the  grassy  place 
yonder,  and  a  cry  like  the  binn  fheadag." 

"  Ay,  the  feadag,  the  feadag,  but  no  flying 
bird,  for  'twas  a  wraith  playing  the  dark  song 
of  the  dead  on  the  shadowy  feadag  that  no 
man  has  ever  seen,  though  there  be  those  who 
hear  it  .  .  .  God  save  us !  " 

Nial  shuddered.  It  might  be  so,  he  thought. 
He  believed  he  had  seen  a  plover  only,  had 
heard  no  more  than  the  wailing  cry  of  a 
plover;  but  doubtless  Murdo  knew. 

The  shepherd  stood  staring  at  him  gloomily. 
At  last  he  spoke : 

'  This  is  a  dark  thing,  Nial,  my  man. 
There  is  no  light  upon  it  to  me  whatever.  But 
it  will  be  looking  to  me  as  though  I  should  go 
down  to  the  Pool  again,  and  be  seeing  if  she 
is  there  to.  And  if  not,  then  I  must  seek  out 
Alan  upon  the  hill.  Do  you  think  this  thing 
too?" 

Nial  shook  his  head  despondently ;  he  could 
think  neither  one   way   nor   another.      Mam- 

Fddd'ak),  in  the  ensuing  sentences,  has  two  mean- 
ings— a  plover,  and  a  flute.  The  bitin  jhcadag  is 
"the  shrill  voice  of  the  plover."  Murdo  turns  the 
word  both  ways:  feadag,  the  bird,  and  feadag.  a 
flute;  the  flute  made  of  wind  and  shadow  that 
sometimes  is  heard  on  the  hills  when  a  (tamhasq) 
tdv&sk  moves  through  the  gloom  of  night. 

337 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Gorm  lay  there  dead — white,  stiff,  staring  up 
to  the  sun.     He  knew  that. 

"  Ah,  poor  fool  that  you  are,"  Murdo  went 
on,  pityingly,  and  as  though  talking  to  him- 
self;  "  sure,  I  need  not  be  asking  you.  How 
can  a  soulless  thing  o'  the  woods  think?  wi' 
a  head  like  an  addled  egg,  and  a  poor  bit  body 
withouten  a  spirit  in  it,  as  all  decent  folk  have. 
Well,  well,  'tis  Himself  has  the  good  reason, 
praise  be  His !  And  now,  Nial,  I  will  be  do- 
ing this  thing.  I  told  you  the  Book  lay  open 
on  the  table  in  there.  Well,  I  will  be  for 
going  by  whatever  the  word  is  that  is  on  my 
sight  when  I  first  look.  If  it  tell  me  to  go  into 
Inverglas,  and  speak  of  this  evil  day,  then 
it  is  going  there  I  will  be;  if  it  tell  me  to  go 
and  seek  in  the  Pool,  well,  I  will  be  going 
there ;  and  whatever  I  see,  it  will  be  the  way 
for  me.  If  I  am  to  speak,  it  is  speaking  I 
will  be;  if  I  am  to  be  silent,  it  is  silent  I  will 
be." 

And  with  that  the  shepherd  turned,  moved 
slowly  away,  and  entered  the  cottage  for  the 
third  time. 

Where  would  he  look?  he  wondered,  when 
he  stood  by  the  table  and  stared  down  upon 
the  open  Gaelic  Bible.  Sure,  he  would  accept 
the  sign  in  the  sentence  across  which  Anabal's 
spectacles  lay. 

338 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

He  stooped,  and  with  pointing  finger  read 
slowly  and  with  difficulty,  word  by  word : 

"Cuir,   a    Thigheama,  faire    air    mo    bheul ;    gleidh 

dorus  mo  bhilean  !  " 
"Set,  O  Lord,  a  watch  before  my  mouth;  keep  the 

door  of  my  lips  I ' ' 

'  That  will  be  enough,"  he  muttered  with 
bated  breath,  and  went  out.  As  he  approached 
the  horse,  Nial  saw  that  he  had  found  the 
"  wisdom."  Vaguely  he  wondered  if  Murdo 
had  noticed  any  "  living  words  " — mysterious 
phrase  that  ever  perplexed,  and  sometimes 
terrified  him. 

"  Nial,  I  have  found  the  word.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  go  into  the  Strath  with  news  of  the 
dead.  The  Book  said,  "  Keep  a  zvatch  before 
the  month,  keep  the  door  of  the  lips."  You 
understand  .  .  .  ?  Ay,  sure:  poor,  faithful 
creature  that  loved  Mam-Gorm ;  ay,  an'  that 
Mam-Gorm,  too,  loved  as  much  as  Donn  or 
Fior  or  any  o'  the  dogs,  wise  beasties.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  will  be  going  now,  down  to  the  Pool: 
then,  one  way  or  the  other,  I  will  be  looking 
for  Alan  Gilchrist.  An'  it  is  for  you  to  wait 
here,  Nial,  lest  he,  or  any  other,  come.  We'll 
put  the  mare  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  Mam-Gorm 
.  .  .  into  the  byre  just  now.  And  you  wait, 
you  will  be  minding!  " 

339 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

In  silence  Raoilt,  with  her  rigid  burden,  was 
led  into  the  hot  gloom  of  the  byre.  Then  the 
door  was  partially  closed,  for  there  was  no 
fastening  to  it,  and  Murdo  made  ready  to  go. 

"  Leave  me  one  o'  the  dogs,"  said  Nial  sul- 
lenly. 

"And  for  why?" 

"  I  will  not  be  staying  here  alone,  in  this 
treeless,  foreign  place,  Murdo  MacMurdo: 
no,  that  I  won't,  unless  you  will  be  leaving  me 
one  of  the  dogs." 

The  shepherd  grunted  surlily,  for  the  collies 
were  his  best  friends,  and  good  company.  But 
if  so  to  be,  then  so  to  be.  He  would  take 
Braon  and  leave  Luath.  It  was  safer,  at  such 
a  time,  to  be  alone  with  a  dog  than  a  bitch ; 
for  bitches  were  known  often  to  be  in  league 
with  demons  and  evil  spirits.  As  for  Nial, 
not  being  human  himself,  there  would  be  less 
risk.  Now  that  he  noticed  it,  there  was  a  red 
glare  in  Luath's  eyes,  and  the  bitch  moved 
about  in  a  strange  way.  For  sure  he  would 
take  Braon. 

The  time  went  wearily  for  the  watcher  at 
Ardoch-beag.  The  sweltering  heat  made  him 
long  doubly  for  the  green  forest  that  was  his 
home.  He  did  not  dare  enter  that  lonely 
house.     Who  or  what  might  be  sitting  there, 

340 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

or  standing  looking  at  him  from  the  inner 
room  ?  Neither  could  he  venture  into  the  byre, 
though,  but  for  her  awful  burden,  he  would 
rather  have  the  company  of  the  mare  Raoilt 
than  of  the  bitch  Luath. 

For  a  long  while  he  sat  in  the  shadow  of  a 
dyke  that  was  the  south  side  of  the  winter 
sheepfold.  But  he  grew  more  and  more  un- 
easy as  time  passed.  What  if  Murdo  did  not 
come  back  till  after  nightfall? 

He  rose  and  stared  about  him.  Where  was 
Luath  ?  He  could  not  see  the  collie  anywhere. 
He  had  noticed  her  trotting  idly  up  the  steep 
bend  of  the  road  beyond  the  cottage. 

"  Ah,  there  she  is,"  he  muttered,  as  he  saw 
a  shadow  flit  bluely  across  the  blinding  way. 
But  what  was  the  matter  with  the  beast  ?  She 
came  along  at  a  swift,  slinking  run.  her  tail 
skiffing  the  ground  between  her  feet.  As  she 
passed,  she  gave  him  a  furtive  glance.  The 
upper  lip,  taut,  just  showed  a  glimmer  of 
white  fangs. 

"  Luath  !     Luath  !     Luath  !  " 

But  the  collie  would  pay  no  heed ;  or,  rather, 
she  paid  this  heed,  that  she  broke  into  a  race, 
and  flew  down  the  road  to  the  Ford  till  she 
was  no  more  than  a  black  blur  beyond  a 
whirling  eddy  of  dust. 

This  was  the  last  straw.    Nial  gave  one  look 

34i 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

more  all  around  him.  Then  he  listened  at  the 
byre,  to  hear  if  Raoilt  were  munching  at  her 
hay.  What  if  Mam-Gorm  should  get  tired  of 
being  dead,  and  should  dismount,  and,  rigid 
and  white,  step  out  into  the  sunlight!  The 
thought  made  him  shiver,  for  all  the  blazing 
heat. 

Silently  as  his  shadow,  he  was  out  upon  the 
road.  Suddenly  the  whim  took  him  to  go  the 
other  way  rather  than  by  the  path  he  and  the 
others  had  come.  Below  Cnoc-Ruadh  the 
road  dipped  for  a  bit ;  and  there  was  a  sheep- 
path  from  it  that  would  lead  him  down  to  the 
ford  of  Ath-na-chaorach,  whence  he  would 
soon  be  in  Iolair  forest  again. 

But  no  Ford  of  the  Sheep  did  Nial  see  that 
day. 

For  after  he  had  reached  the  summit  of  the 
road  at  that  part,  to  the  westward  of  Ardoch- 
beag,  he  saw  a  sight  that  brought  the  heart 
suffocatingly  to  his  mouth.  It  was  this,  then, 
that  had  made  Luath  slink  swiftly  away,  with 
curled  lip  and  bristling  fell? 

There,  as  though  carven  in  stone,  sat  the 
woman  Anabal,  rigid  and  motionless  as  the 
thing  that  was  in  the  byre.  She  was  on  the 
extreme  verge  of  Cnoc-Ruadh,  where  a  dou- 
ble ledge  runs  out  from  the  great  boulder 
which  overhangs  the  Strath,  and  whence  for 

342 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

nigh  upon  a  score  of  miles  the  eye  can  follow 
the  course  of  Mairg  Water. 

At  the  far  end  a  heat-haze  obscured  moun- 
tain-flank and  bracken-slope,  and  birk-shaw 
— all  save  the  extreme  summits  of  the  hills, 
purple-grey  shadows  against  the  gleaming 
sky.  Nearer,  in  the  north  strath,  the  smoke 
of  many  cots,  sheilings,  and  bothan  rose  in 
their  perpendicular  or  spiral  columns  of  pale 
blue  mist. 

From  where  Nial  stood  he  could  see  her 
face.  It  was  as  wan  and  awful  as  that  of  the 
dead  man  in  the  byre,  but  he  saw  that  the  eyes 
lived.  The  woman  sat  dumb,  blind,  oblivious 
of  the  flaming  heat,  her  gaze  fixed,  un- 
wavering. Fire  burned  in  them,  a  fire  that 
would  never  be  quenched  till  the  day  of  the 
grave. 

He  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  alive  or 
dead,  whether  a  woman  or  a  wraith.  But  he 
noted  the  long,  tangled  locks  of  hair  which 
hung  over  her  shoulder,  brown  hair  streaked 
with  grey,  like  the  tress  that  the  dead  man 
still  clutched  in  his  right  hand. 

It  was  a  thing  to  flee  from.  One  desire 
only  possessed  him  now,  to  reach  the  safe 
green  quietudes  of  the  pine-forest  once  more. 
There  all  was  familiar ;  there  he  could  evade 
man  or  wraith. 

343 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

And  so  he,  too,  left  that  solitude  where, 
once  again,  Torcall  and  Anabal  were  nigh  one 
to  another,  and  not  knowing  it. 

How  could  he  know — none  but  God  knew — 
that  in  the  woman's  ears  was  the  roar  of  the 
Linn  forever?  that  the  laughter  of  a  kelpie 
wrought  her  ever  to  an  excruciating  terror? 
Dumb,  motionless,  staring  unwaveringly :  so 
was  she  at  the  flame-red  setting,  as  she  had 
been  since  the  first  blaze  had  lightened  along 
the  peaks  of  the  east. 


It  was  within  an  hour  of  nightfall  when, 
from  the  verge  of  the  forest  below  Mam- 
Gorm,  Nial  caught  sight  of  the  kye  coming 
down  from  the  hill-pastures.  He  could  not 
see  Sorcha,  but  he  knew  she  must  be  there; 
probably  with  Alan,  who  for  days  past  had 
been  wont  to  depute  his  own  shepherding 
on  Tornideon  to  a  herd-laddie  who  lived  with 
an  old  drover  just  beyond  the  Pass  of  the 
Eagles. 

Nial  had  already  been  up  at  the  farm.  Oona 
lay  where  he  had  left  her,  and  was  still  in  the 
same  profound  and,  but  for  her  low  breathing, 
deathlike  slumber.     Thence  he  had  wandered 

344 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

back  to  the  forest,  thinking  that  he  would  de- 
scend toward  the  Linn  o'  Mairg,  and  see  if 
Alurdo  were  still  there  in  his  quest  for  Anabal. 
He  had  scarce  entered  the  pine-glades  when, 
happening  to  glance  backward,  he  saw  the 
cows  coming  home. 

Sure  enough,  in  a  few  minutes  Sorcha  ap- 
peared :  and,  as  he  had  surmised,  Alan  with 
her.  They  walked  together,  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  while  slowly  they  followed  the  leisurely 
kye.  As  they  came  nearer,  Nial  heard  Sorcha 
singing  one  of  her  many  milking  songs.  Often 
he  had  heard  her  sing  that  which  now  came 
rippling  down  the  heather,  and  he  could  have 
given  her  word  for  word  for  it. 

O  sweet  St.  Bride  of  the 

Yellow,  yellow  hair: 
Paul  said,  and  Peter  said, 
And  all  the  saints  alive  or  dead 
Vowed  she  had  the  sweetest  head, 
Bonnie,  sweet  St.  Bride  of  the 

Yellow,  yellow  hair. 

White  may  my  milking  be, 

White  as  thee: 
Thy  face  is  white,  thy  neck  is  white. 
Thy  hands  are  white,  thy  feet  are  white, 
For  thy  sweet  soul  is  shining  bright — 

O  dear  to  me, 

O  dear  to  see, 

St.  Bridget  white! 

345 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Yellow  may  my  butter  be, 

Soft  and  round: 
Thy  breasts  are  sweet, 
Soft,  round,  and  sweet 
So  may  my  butter  be : 
So  may  my  butter  be,  O 

Bridget  sweet! 

Safe  thy  way  is,  safe,  O 

Safe,  St.  Bride: 
May  my  kye  come  home  at  even, 
None  be  fallin',  none  be  leavin', 
Dusky  even,  breath-sweet  even 
Here,  as  there,  where,  O 

St.  Bride,  thou 

Keepest  tryst  with  God  in  heav'n, 

Seest  the  angels  bow 
And  souls  be  shriven — 
Here,  as  there,  'tis  breath-sweet  even, 

Far  and  wide — 
Singeth  thy  little  maid 
Safe  in  thy  shade, 

Bridget,  Bride!" 

Nial  hesitated.  He  would  have  gone  to  her 
at  once,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  speak  before 
Alan.  Moreover,  what  was  he  to  say  to  An- 
gus Og,  as  Anabal's  son  was  called  by  the 
strath  folk  on  account  of  his  beauty  and  be- 
cause he  was  a  dreamer  and  a  poet,  though  but 
a  shepherd  of  the  hills?  How  could  he  tell  of 
Murdo's  quest  by  the  pool,  and  also  of  the 

346 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

spirit  or  wraith  he  had  seen  sitting  on  Cnoc- 
Ruadh  that  is  beyond  Ardoch-beag  on  Tor- 
nideon  ? 

The  flanks  of  the  cows  gleamed  in  the  light 
as  with  filled  udders  they  swung  slowly  home- 
ward, their  breaths  showing  in  whorls  of  mist 
whenever  they  were  in  shadow,  where  the 
dews  were  already  falling  after  the  extreme 
of  heat.  Behind  them,  now  on  a  sloping  but- 
tress of  rock  and  heather,  now  on  the  smooth 
thymy  hollows  which  lay  like  green  pools 
among  the  purple  ling,  Alan  and  Sorcha 
moved,  both  bathed  in  the  sunglow,  his 
left  hand  clasping  her  right  and  swinging 
slow.  Ah,  fair  to  see,  thought  Nial:  fair  to 
see! 

But,  even  while  he  pondered,  he  saw  Alan 
take  Sorcha  in  his  arms,  kiss  her,  and  then, 
with  lingering  hand-clasp,  turn  to  go  up  the 
mountain  again,  or,  as  might  be,  to  cross  to 
Tornideon.  Not  far  did  he  go,  though:  for, 
as  Nial  watched,  he  saw  Sorcha's  lover  lean 
against  a  great  boulder,  where  he  stood  like 
a  fair  god,  because  of  the  sunflood  falling  upon 
him  in  gold  waves  out  of  the  west.  Beauti- 
ful the  rolling  of  that  sea  of  light  across  the 
sloping  surface  of  the  forest :  with  the  yellow- 
shining  billows  flowing  and  rippling  among 
the  summits  of  the  pines,  and  ever  and  again 

347 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

spilling  into  branchy  crevices  or  dark  green 
underglooms. 

Doubtless  Alan  was  waiting  to  see  her 
reach  Mam-Gorm,  and  perhaps  for  a  signal 
thereafter:  if  so,  thought  Nial,  he  had  best 
see  Sorcha  at  once,  though  he  knew  not  the 
way  of  the  thing  to  be  said,  or  if  he  could 
speak  at  all  while  Oona  slept. 

Slowly  he  moved  toward  her.  She  had  de- 
scried him,  for  she  did  not  follow  the  cows, 
but  stood,  waiting.  The  gloaming  was  al- 
ready about  her.  She  was  like  a  spirit,  he 
thought,  with  the  windy  hair  about  her  face — 
for  with  the  going  of  the  sun  a  sudden  eddy 
had  arisen,  and  the  air  of  its  furtive,  wavering 
pinions  was  upon  Sorcha. 

"  Nial !  "  she  cried  blithely,  when  he  was  a 
brief  way  off,  "  is  the  peat-smoke  a  bird, 
that  it  has  flown  away  from  the  house — for 
not  a  breath  of  smoke  do  I  see?  Is  father 
in?  and  Oona?  Have  you  seen  her?  I've 
called  thrice,  but  St.  Bridget  herself  wouldn't 
be  having  an  answer  from  Oona  if  she's 
hiding  somewhere.  Oona!  .  .  .  Oona!  .  .  . 
Oona!" 

"  Don't  be  calling  upon  the  child,  Sorcha. 
She  is  tired,  and  is  sleeping." 

"And  father?" 

Then  in  his  heart  of  hearts  Nial  knew  that 

348 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

he  had  not  the  courage  to  say  what  he  had  to 
say.  Sure,  too,  there  was  something  he  did 
not  understand.  After  all,  the  woman  he  had 
seen  on  Cnoc-Ruadh  could  be  no  other  than 
Anabal  Gilchrist.  And  if  she  could  be 
drowned  and  yet  come  alive  again,  perhaps 
Torcall  Cameron  could — ay,  was  perhaps  al- 
ready up  and,  blind  as  he  was,  feeling  blankly 
round  the  walls  of  the  strange  place  he  was 
in,  to  be  out  soon,  and,  later,  in  the  dark,  come 
striding  into  Mam-Gorm. 

"And  father,  Nial,  and  father?  Is  he  in, 
or  is  he  out  upon  the  hill,  with  the  gloom  upon 
him  this  night  again  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  a  strange  thing  that  I  am  telling 
you,  Sorclia-nighean-Thorcall,  but  one  that 
will  be  glad  and  warm  in  your  heart." 

"  Speak." 

'  There  is  .  .  .  there  is  peace  now  between 
Mam-Gorm  and  the  woman  Anabal,  that  is 
mother  of  Alan." 

'  Peace ! — oh,  Nial !  To  Himself  the  praise 
of  it!  Oh,  glad  I  am  at  the  good  thing  that 
you  say  !     Sure,  glad  am  I !  " 

"  It  is  true.  Ay,  and  he  has  gone  over  to 
Tornideon,  and  will  sleep  this  night  at  Ar- 
doch-beag." 

Sorcha  stared  bewildered.  Even  her  joy  at 
the  news,  which  meant  so  much  for  her  and 

349 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

Alan,  was  forgotten  in  sheer  amaze.  Her 
father  go  to  Tornideon!  her  father  asleep  at 
Ardoch-beag! 

Words  of  his  came  to  her  remembrance : 
she,  too,  muttered,  "  My  soul  swims  in  mist." 

"  Nial,  is  this — a  true  thing?  .  .  ." 

"  Ay." 

"  Is  it — is  it — a  true  thing  that  he  is  up  at 
Ardoch-beag,  and  will  sleep  there  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  and  ...  is  at  peace  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sure,  he  is  up  at  Ardoch-beag,  and 
will  sleep  there,  and  sure,  too,  sure,  he  is  at 
peace." 

A  wonderful  light  came  into  the  girl's  beau- 
tiful eyes.  Her  twilight  beauty  was  now  as  a 
starry  dusk. 

"  Nial/'  she  whispered,  "  dear  Nial,  you 
and  Murdo  see  to  the  milking  of  the  kye 
for  me  this  night  ...  do,  dear  good  Nial, 
do!  And  you  can  ask  Oona,  too,  to  help 
you  .  .  .  for  .  .  .  for,  Nial,  all  is  well  now 
.  .  .  and  I  can  go  to  Alan  .  .  .  oh,  glad  am 
I,  and  like  as  though  a  bird  sang  in  my 
heart !  " 

And  then,  before  he  realised  what  he  had 
brought  upon  himself,  before  he  could  say  a 
word  of  yea  or  nay,  Sorcha  had  turned,  and 
with  swift  steps  was  hurrying  through  the 
gloaming  to  where  Alan  still  stood  on  the  hill- 

350 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

side,  watching  and  dreaming,  dreaming  and 
hoping. 

Nial  stood  gazing  after  her.  Strange,  this 
mystery  of  beauty !  All  his  trouble  waned  out 
of  the  glare  of  day  into  a  cool  twilight.  The 
passing  of  her  there  on  the  hill  was  like  music 
in  his  ears.  Ah,  to  be  Alan,  to  have  so  tall 
and  strong  a  body,  so  fair  a  face,  to  have  Sor- 
cha's  love,  to  have  a  soul !  The  fairer  soul  the 
fairer  body — that  seemed  to  him  a  truth ;  for 
what  had  he  to  go  by  but  the  three  he  knew 
best  and  loved  best :  Oona  and  Sorcha  and 
Alan,  the  fairest  man,  the  most  beautiful  wom- 
an, the  loveliest  child  he  had  ever  seen  or 
dreamed  of  there  in  Strath  Iolair,  or  during 
those  mysterious  wanderings  of  his  when  he 
was  far  from  the  mountain-land  with  the 
gipsy-people?  No  beauty  like  theirs,  no 
others  like  them  in  any  way ;  sure,  it  was  be- 
cause the  souls  of  them  were  white,  and  all 
three  kindred  of  the  forgotten  "  people  of  the 
sun,"  whom  Sorcha  sometimes  sang  or  spoke 
of  as  the  Tuatha-de-Danan.  and  Mam-Go rm 
had  told  him  once  were  old,  forgotten  gods — 
fair,  deathless  folk ! 

In  truth  it  was  with  joy  that  Sorcha  has- 
tened toward  Alan.  He  saw  the  light  in  her 
eyes  before  she  was  near  enough  to  speak. 
Often,  beholding  her,  he  was  aware  of  some- 

35i 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

thing  within  him  that  was  as  a  sun-dazzle  to 
the  eye  that  looks  upon  a  shining  sea  or  a 
cloudless  noon.  Sometimes  his  heart  beat  low, 
and  an  awe  made  a  hushed,  fragrant,  green- 
gloom  dusk  in  his  brain ;  sometimes  he  grew 
faint,  strangely  wrought,  as  a  worshipper 
when  the  spirit  for  a  brief  moment  unveils  its 
sanctuary  and  irradiates,  transforms  the 
whole  trembling  body,  but  most  the  face  and 
the  eyes  of  wonder.  At  other  times  all  the 
poet  in  him  arose.  Then  he  laughed  low  with 
joy  because  of  her  beauty ;  and  saw  in  her  the 
loveliness  of  the  mountain-land.  Then  it  was 
that  she  was  his  "  Dream,"  his  "  Twilight,"  his 
"  Shining  star,"  his  "  Soft  breath  of  dusk." 
Dear  she  was  to  him  as  the  fawn  to  the  hind, 
sweet  as  the  bell-heather  to  the  wild  bee, 
lovely  and  sweet  and  dear  beyond  all  words  to 
say,  all  thought  to  image.  Then  there  were 
their  blithe  hours  of  youth — hours  when  he  was 
Alan-aluinn  and  she  Sorcha-maiseach;  seasons 
of  laughing  happiness  and  light  ripple  of  the 
waters  of  peace.  Children  of  the  sun  they  were 
in  truth,  in  a  deeper  sense  than  they,  as  all  the 
kindred  of  the  Gael,  were  children  of  the  mist. 
But  of  late  both — and  he  particularly — had 
been  wrought  more  and  more  by  the  passion 
of  love.  Ever  since  the  refusal  of  the  minis- 
ter at  Inverglas  to  marry  them,  because  of  the 

352 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

feud  between  Torcall  Cameron  and  Anabal 
Gilchrist,  and  of  the  ban  laid  by  each  against 
the  offspring  of  the  other,  they  had  troubled 
themselves  no  more  about  what,  after  all,  to 
them,  in  their  remote  life  in  these  mountain 
solitudes,  meant  little.  In  the  dewy,  moth- 
haunted,  fragrant  nights  of  May,  when  it  was 
never  quite  dark  upon  the  hills,  and  even  in 
the  forest  the  pine-boles  loomed  shadowy, 
they  had  become  dearer  than  ever  to  each 
other.  Day  by  day  thereafter  their  joy  had 
grown,  like  a  flower  moving  ever  to  the  sun; 
and  as  it  grew,  the  roots  deepened,  and  the 
tendrils  met  and  intertwined  round  the  two 
hearts,  till  at  last  they  were  drawn  together 
and  became  one,  as  two  moving  rays  of  light 
will  converge  into  one  beam,  or  the  song  of 
two  singers  blend  and  become  as  the  song  of 
one.  As  the  weeks  passed,  the  wonder  of  the 
dream  became  at  times  a  brooding  passion,  at 
times  almost  an  ecstasy.  Ossian  and  the  poets 
of  old  speak  of  a  strange  frenzy  that  came 
upon  the  brave ;  and,  sure,  there  is  a  mircath  * 

1  The  "mircath,"  or  war-frenzy,  is  mire-chath,  the 
"  passion  of  battle,"  as  the  "  mirdeeay "  is  mire- 
dheidh,  the  "passion  of  longing."  The  word  Dar- 
thula — infra — is  a  later  Gaelic  variant  of  Dearduil 
(almost  identically  pronounced),  the  Scoto-Gaelic 
equivalent  of  the  Erse  Deirdre,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  old. 

353 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

in  love  now  and  again  in  the  world,  in  die 
green,  remote  places  at  least.  Aodh  the  is- 
lander, and  Ian-ban  of  the  hills,  and  other 
dreamer-poets  know  of  it — the  mirdhei,  the 
passion  that  is  deeper  than  passion,  the  dream 
that  is  beyond  the  dreamer,  the  ecstasy  that  is 
the  rapture  of  the  soul,  with  the  body  nigh 
forgot. 

This  mirdhei  was  now  more  and  more  upon 
Alan ;  upon  Sorcha,  too,  the  dream-spell  lay. 

So  it  was  in  a  glad  silence  that  he  watched 
her  coming.  For  the  moment  she  was  not 
Sorcha,  but  a  Bandia-nan-slcibhtcan,  a  god- 
dess of  the  hills,  fair  as  the  Banrigh-nan-Aill- 
sean,  the  fairy  queen.  Often,  singing  or  tell- 
ing her  some  of  the  songs  of  Oisin  mhic 
Fhionn,  he  had  called  her  his  Darthula,  after 
that  fairest  of  women  in  the  days  of  old,  be- 
cause she  too  had  deep  eyes  of  beauty  and 
wonder.  Therefore  the  word  came  out  of  his 
heart,  like  the  single  mating-note  of  a  mavis, 
when,  as  she  drew  nigh  to  him  and  whispered 
low,  "Alan!  Alan!"  he  murmured  only 
"Darthula  .  .  .  Darthala-mochree! " 

In  a  few  words  she  told  him  the  marvellous 
news :  Torcall  and  Anabal  at  peace ;  her  father 
now  at  Ardoch-beag ! 

At  first  he  too  could  scarce  believe  it. 
Then,    little    by    little,    the    smaller    wonder 

354 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

waned,  and  the  wonder  of  his  love — the  won- 
der of  Sorcha  grew. 

Hand  in  hand  they  wandered  slowly  up  the 
mountain  as  in  a  dream.  A  strange  new  joy 
had  come  to  them.  The  world  fell  further 
away,  far  beneath  them.  Even  the  Strath  be- 
came a  shadowy  place — a  foreign  strand 
where  their  voyaging  boats  need  never  coast. 

When  the  moon  rose,  first  through  a  tremu- 
lous flood  of  amber-yellow  light,  thence  to 
emerge  as  a  pale-gold  flower,  low  in  the  Lios- 
nan-speur,  the  "  garden  of  the  starry  heav- 
ens," the  mountain  lovers  were  already  far  up 
Ben  Iolair,  and  nigh  the  great  Sg6rr-Glan,  the 
precipice  that  on  the  eastern  flank  falls  sheer 
from  the  Druim-nan-Damh,  the  Ridge  of  the 
Stags,  for  close  upon  two  thousand  feet. 
Here  in  a  sheltered  place  known  as  the  Bad- 
a-sgailich  ann  choir e-na-gaoithe ,  "  the  shad- 
ing clump  of  trees  in  the  windy  corrie,"  was 
the  sheiling  of  Murdo  the  shepherd,  which 
for  weeks  past  had  been  used  by  Alan  rather 
than  his  own  hill-sheiling  high  on  Tornideon, 
where  the  east  wind  blew  with  a  fierce  breath, 
and  the  hill-slope  was  barren,  and  there  was 
no  Sorcha. 

They  could  hear  the  wind  among  the 
heights,  but  the  moon-wave  was  everywhere 
with  quiet  light,  and  there  was  peace. 

355 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

For  a  while  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the 
cot.  The  moonshine  touched  them  with  a 
beam  of  pale  gold — a  finger  out  of  heaven. 
Silent  and  still  it  was :  no  sound  but  the  fur- 
tive crying  of  the  wind  among  the  invisible 
corries  and  peaks,  with  a  flute-like  call  among 
the  serrated  pinnacles  of  the  Ridge  of  the 
Stags.  At  intervals,  as  a  vagrant  breath, 
came  the  sigh  of  the  hill-torrents  as  they  fell 
toward  the  Sruantsrha,  the  wild  stream  that 
foams  from  the  lochan  of  Mairg  beyond  the 
Pass  of  the  Eagles,  and  surges  hoarse  and 
dark,  even  in  the  summer  droughts,  at  the 
base  of  the  great  precipice  of  Sgorr-Glan. 

Hand  in  hand  they  stood,  silence  between 
them.  Their  eyes  dreamed  into  the  moonlit 
dusk.  In  the  mind  of  Alan  Sorcha  moved  as 
a  vision ;  in  the  mind  of  Sorcha  there  were 
two  shadowy  figures  of  dream — Alan,  and  the 
child  over  whose  faint  breath  of  life  in  her 
womb  her  heart  yearned  as  a  brooding  dove. 

When  Oona  awoke  she  saw  that  it  was 
dark.  In  the  peat-glow  she  could  descry  the 
figure  of  Nial  crouching  in  the  shadow  of  the 
ingle,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  her. 

"  What  is  it,  Nial  ?  what  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" 

The  dwarf  saw  that  as  yet  she  had  not  re- 

356 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

membered.  He  feared  for  the  child,  though 
he  knew  not,  what  none  knew,  how  the 
strange  fatalism  of  the  race  was  already 
strong  within  her,  strong  and  compelling  as 
hunger,  thirst,  or  sleep. 

"  Oona,  my  fawn,  you  must  have  food.  I 
am  hungry  too.  You  have  not  eaten  since  last 
night." 

A  startled  look  came  into  her  eyes.  He  saw 
it,  and  hurriedly  resumed : 

"  So,  a  little  ago,  I  lit  the  peats,  which  had 
smouldered  into  ash ;  and  now,  bonnie  wee 
doo,  I  will  be  making  the  porridge  for  you,  and 
see  .  .  .  the  water  is  boiling  that  is  in  the 
kettle,  and  I'm  thinking  it  is  singing  Oona, 
Oona,  mochrce,  Oona,  Oona,  mochree,  come 
and  be  having  the  food  with  poor  Nial!  And, 
Oona,  look  you,  there  is  the  warm  milk,  and 
the  bread;  for  I  milked  the  brown  cow  Aill- 
sha-ban, when  Sorcha  went  up  the  hill  with 
Alan.  An'  I  couldn't  be  milking  the  white 
one,  Gealcas,  for  she  wouldn't  give  without 
Sorcha's  singing,  an'  I  could  not  be  minding 
that  song ;  no,  not  I ;  but  I  knew  the  song  for 
Aillsha-ban : 

"Aillsha-ban,  Aillsha-ban, 
Give  way  to  the  milking! 
The  holy  St.  Bridget 
Is  milking,  milking 

357 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

This  self-same  even 
The  white  kye  in  heaven — 
Ay,  sure,  my  eyes  scan 
The  green  place  she  is  in, 
Aillsha-ban,  Aillsha-ban: 
And  her  hand  is  so  soft 
And  her  crooning  is  sweet 
As  my  milking  is  soft 
Upon  thee,  Aills  ha-ban — 
As  my  crooning  is  sweet 
Upon  thee,  Aillsha-ban, 

Aillsha-ban — 
So  soft  is  my  hand  and 
My  crooning  so  sweet, 

Aillsha-ban!" 

Poor  Nial's  singing  was  not  restful,  for  his 
voice  was  at  all  times  shrill  and  hoarse,  and 
now  it  had  an  added  quaver  in  it.  But  Oona 
listened,  drowsily  content. 

She  had  remembered  all.  Yes :  Sorcha  was 
right  that  day  when  she  said  Death  roamed 
through  every  hour,  and  that  the  moment  be- 
fore each  new  hour  Death  stood  at  the  door 
and  broke  the  link  that  held  the  going  and  the 
coming  in  one  bond. 

If  her  foster-father  was  dead,  he  was  dead. 
The  fact  was  absolute  to  her.  Once  she  had 
seen  a  stag  die.  She  had  been  up  near  the 
summit  of  Iolair,  and  was  about  to  quench 
her  thirst  from  a  small  black  tarn,  hid  among 
the    rocks,    when    she    caught    sight    of    a 

358 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

wounded  deer.  The  hunter  had  maimed,  not 
slain  it:  and  though  it  had  escaped,  it  was 
only  to  sink  with  weariness  by  the  tarn,  and 
lie  there  watching  its  blood  trickle  steadily 
into  the  crimsoned  water,  till  there  should  be 
no  more  flow.  As  long  as  life  remained  in  the 
stricken  beast,  Oona  could  not  believe  in  the 
possibility  of  death.  In  its  extremity  it  made 
no  further  effort  when  she  drew  close:  only 
a  gurgling  sob  showed  its  broken  heart,  and 
great  tears  fell  from  its  violet  eyes.  Either 
instinct  let  the  stag  know  that  she  would  do 
it  no  harm,  or  it  was  too  weak  to  resent  a 
touch :  but  in  the  end  the  dying  deer  let  Oona 
take  its  nozzle  in  her  lap,  while  she  smoothed 
the  velvety  skin  and  wiped  away  the  blood 
and  sweat.  Even  when,  kissing  it  and  calling 
it  tender  impossible  names,  she  saw  the  veil 
come  over  the  eyes,  she  could  not  admit  that 
death  could  come  then — there.  But  when 
there  was  not  a  quiver,  and  the  rigid  limbs 
were  cold,  her  tears  dried,  and  she  looked 
at  it  meditatively.  It  was  dead :  what  had 
she  in  common  with  it?  A  little  ago,  her 
heart  throbbed  with  loving  pity:  now  she 
glanced  at  the  great  beast  curiously.  Its 
strong  odour  was  disagreeable:  its  bloodied 
mouth  and  breast  disgusted  her.  There  was 
no  good  in  being  sorry.     It  was  dead. 

359 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

In  a  different,  but  kindred  way,  her  foster- 
father  was  the  stricken  deer.  She  had  seen 
him  almost  to  his  death :  she  had  seen  the 
drowned  body:  almost  she  had  died  of  her 
wild  and  passionate  grief.  Then  she  had  slept 
through  the  noon-heats,  and  the  afternoon, 
and  the  evening:  and  now  she  awoke  to  the 
no  longer  overwhelming  but  irrefutable  fact, 
that  her  foster-father  was  dead. 

She  had  meant  well.  Why  did  the  woman 
Anabal  not  see  to  the  blind  man?  But  it  did 
not  matter.  He  was  dead  now :  dead.  God 
willed  it  so.  It  was  to  be.  Not  all  the  striv- 
ing in  the  world  could  have  prevented  this. 
In  wild  winter  nights,  before  the  peats,  she 
had  heard  Torcall  himself  chant  the  rune  of 
Aodh  the  poet,  with  that  haunting  ending 
which  Sorcha  sang  often  to  herself ;  that  Alan 
had  on  his  lips  at  times  as  always  in  his  heart ; 
and  that  even  Murdo  muttered  when  it  was 
tempestuous  weather,  and  Death  was  abroad, 
and  the  gloom  of  the  rocks  was  heavy  upon 
him.  Ah,  the  words  evaded  her:  but  Nial 
would  know,  Nial  who  was  the  tuneless  harp 
that  caught  all  wandering  strains,  from  sheil- 
ing-song  to  the  way  of  the  wind  among  leaves. 

"  Nial :  what  is  the  thing  that  Sorcha  sings 
often  .  .  .  and  that  .  .  .  that  he  sang  some- 
times, about  the  quiet  at  the  end  ?  " 

360 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Nial  stared,  puzzled  for  a  moment :  then  he 
repeated  in  a  low  voice : 

"Deireadh  gach  comuinn,  sgaoileadh: 
Deireadh  gach  cogaidh,  sith!" 

Over  and  over  Oona  murmured  the  words : 
"  The  end  of  all  meeting,  parting:  the  end  of 
all  striving,  peace" 

She  was  tired.  She  would  think  no  more 
about  her  foster-father.  He  had  seen  God  by 
now.  He  would  know  why  she  ran  away 
from  the  Linn:  and  how  the  fear  was  upon 
her  in  the  wood :  and,  afterward,  how  the  sor- 
row of  him  pulled  at  her  heart.     And  now  .  .  . 

How  she  wished  Sorcha  were  home,  to  sing 
to  her!  Warm  was  the  peat-glow,  and  she 
was  tired.  She  closed  her  eyes  again,  mur- 
muring drowsily  the  refrain  of  an  old  song. 

Silence  was  in  the  dusky  room  again.  Nial 
sat  crouching  by  the  fire:  patient,  as  was  his 
wont.  There  was  not  a  sound  within,  save  the 
low  breathing  of  the  child  and  the  dull  spurtle 
of  the  flame  among  the  red  fibres  on  the  un- 
dersides of  the  peats.  Outside  there  was  a 
melancholy  wail  in  the  sough  of  the  hill-wind. 

The  first  hour  of  the  dark  passed.  What 
was  the  night  to  bring  forth?  he  wondered. 
Where  was  Murdo  ?  what  had  he  found  ? 

Another  hour  passed.     A  weary  sleep  was 

361 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

on  him.  He  dozed,  woke,  stared  at  the  shad- 
owy figure  of  Oona,  dozed  again.  At  last  he 
too  slumbered,  the  duain-samhach  that  is  too 
calm  for  dreams,  too  deep  for  sorrow. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  third  hour  that 
he  stirred  because  of  the  howling  of  a  dog. 

Nial  could  do  what  was  impossible  even  for 
Murdo  the  shepherd :  he  could  tell  in  the  dark, 
and  by  the  sound  only,  which  of  the  dogs 
barked.  He  knew  now  that  the  howling  came 
neither  from  Donn  nor  Luath.  It  was  not  the 
coming  of  Murdo,  then,  for  these  were  his 
two  dogs,  and  that  was  not  the  howl  of  either. 
If  they  were  near,  their  baying  would  be  audi- 
ble. 

Yes,  it  was  Fior.  She  must  have  left  her 
pups,  and  be  roaming  round  the  sheiling. 
Why  was  she  not  in  the  barn?  What  had 
alarmed  her? 

If  it  were  not  because  of  Oona,  he  would  go 
and  quiet  her.  Tenderly  he  glanced  toward 
the  bed.    He  rose  slowly,  his  heart  beating. 

In  the  flicker  of  the  fire  he  saw  the  child 
sitting  upright,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  staring 
fixedly. 

She  said  no  word.  He  feared  to  speak. 
Her  unwavering  gaze  disconcerted  him, 
though  now  he  saw  that  it  was  not  upon  him. 
He  would  just  whisper  to  her,  he  thought: 

362 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

"  Oona-muirnean,  Oona-uanachan,  it  is  only 
Fior.  She  will  be  baying  against  the  moon, 
because  of  the  spell  against  her  pups." 

She  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  shivered 
as  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  now  unnaturally 
bright:  and  that  their  gaze  shifted,  as  though 
they  followed  one  who  moved  about  the  room. 

The  child  shivered,  but  seemed  more  in 
startled  amaze  than  dread.  There  was  more 
fear  in  Nial  than  with  her,  when  he  heard  her 
speak. 

"  Why  do  you  come  here?  " 

Nial  stared.     There  was  no  one  visible. 

"Is  coma  learn  thu!  I  hate  you,  I  hate 
you !  "  cried  the  child,  with  a  passionate  sob. 
"  Go  back  to  him !  I  left  him  with  you !  He 
is  not  here ;  he  is  dead  ...  he  is  dead  .  .  . 
he  is  dead  !  " 

Trembling,  the  dwarf  advanced  a  step  or 
two. 

"  Oona !  Oona !  It  is  I,  Nial !  Speak  to 
me!" 

"  Stand  back,  Nial :  the  woman  Anabal, 
wife  of  Fergus,  is  speaking  to  me." 

With  a  groan  he  staggered  to  one  side.  Was 
she  here,  then,  and  not  still  sitting  on  the  great 
rock  overlooking  the  Strath?  Sure,  then,  a 
spirit  must  she  be :  and  no  wraith  now,  for  his 
eyes  were  void  of  her. 

3r>3 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

But  for  all  his  dread,  he  must  guard  his 
lamb.  If  only  he  knew  one  of  the  spells  in 
the  Book,  that  he  had  placed  at  Oona's  feet! 

"  And  what  will  An — what  will  she  be  say- 
ing to  you,  my  bird  ?  " 

"She  says:  ' Leanabh,  dh'  eirich  dha;  dh' 
eirich  domh;  eiridh  dhuit! '  " 

Nial  slowly  repeated  the  words  below  his 
breath  :  "  Child,  it  has  happened  to  him;  it  has 
happened  to  me;  it  will  happen  to  you."  Oona 
must  be  ill,  he  thought ;  as  Murdo  was  two 
winters  ago,  that  time  he  came  back  from  the 
Strath,  on  the  last  night  of  the  year,  lurching 
and  swaying,  and  saying  wild,  meaningless 
things. 

"  And  what  else  will  she  be  saying  to  you, 
birdeen?  " 

"  '  Thig  thu  gu  h'anamoch! '  " 

"'  Thou  shalt  come  later';  sure  now,  dear, 
there  is  no  meaning  in  that !  Oona,  my  bon- 
nie,  lie  down ;  lie  down,  wee  lassie,  and  sleep, 
and  sleep !  " 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  he  saw  a  change  in 
her  face.  It  was  like  moonshine  suddenly 
moving  on  dark  water. 

He  caught  fragmentary  words  .  .  .  suain 
.  .  .  s\th  .  .  .  and  then,  with  "  sleep  "  and 
"  peace  "  still  on  her  lips,  she  lay  back,  smil- 
ing. 

364 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Slowly  and  soundlessly  he  approached  the 
bed.  In  the  intense  stillness  he  heard  his 
breath  going  like  the  slow,  heavy  beat  of  a 
heron's  wing.  Outside,  the  baying  of  the  dog 
had  suddenly  ceased. 

She  was  asleep,  or  nigh  so.  He  stooped  and 
kissed  the  yellow  tangles  that  overspread  the 
pillow. 

Her  lips  moved. 

What  was  the  thing  she  whispered?  He 
could  not  hear;  ah,  she  was  murmuring  it 
again :  ".  .  .  anail  .  .  .  breath  of  .  .  .  breath 
of  a  .  .  ." 

"  Hush-sJi-sh,  birdeen,"  he  whispered  low ; 
then,  seeing  that  her  lips  again  muttered 
drowsily,  he  put  his  ear  to  them. 

"  And  then  .  .  .  she  .  .  .  smiled  .  .  .  and 
said:  Do  not  .  .  .  fear!  (a  pause,  a  sigh) 
.  .  .  sacred  is  the  .  .  .  breath  .  .  .  the  breath 
of  ...  a  mother.'" 

The  child  slept.  He  stole  back  to  the  ingle. 
There  was  peace  now ;  even  the  wind,  though 
it  moaned  and  swelled  more  and  more  loudly, 
was  as  a  soothing  song. 

And  so  the  night  passed;  Nial  sleeping  fit- 
fully, waking  often,  and  ever  when  he  woke 
pondering  that  last  saying  of  the  child,  Is 
blath  anail  na  mathar. 


3^5 


The   Mountain    Lovers 


XI 


That  night,  any  wayfarer  going  down 
Strath  Iolair,  between  the  Pass  of  the  Eagles 
and  Inverglas,  must  have  been  startled  by  a 
windy  blaze  of  flame  against  the  slope  of  Tor- 
nideon. 

Since  sundown  the  wind  had  increased  in 
strength.  The  loud  clarion-call  could  be  heard 
unceasing  on  the  hills.  Through  the  Pass  it 
came  with  long  wail  or  dreary  sough,  then 
with  a  howl  would  swoop  along  Mairg  Water, 
with  a  noise  that  washed  away  the  roar  of  the 
Linn. 

One  man,  at  least,  saw  it.  Under  an  arch  of 
rock,  in  a  space  half  filled  with  fragrant  dry 
bracken,  Murdo  the  shepherd  watched. 

Doggedness  was  at  once  Murdo's  strength 
and  weakness.  He  had  been  convinced  that 
Anabal  Gilchrist,  guilty  or  innocent,  had  per- 
ished along  with  Torcall  Cameron.  He  had 
come  to  the  Linn,  and  till  he  found  her  he 
would  wait.  Moreover,  had  he  not  the  word 
of  the  Scriptures  for  it,  bidding  him  be  silent? 
What  need,  then,  for  him  to  go  about  as  an 
idle  rumour?  All  would  be  known  in  time 
without  his  telling. 

When  at  last  the  twilight  came,  he  was  still 
there.    If  he  could  not  see  the  body  of  Anabal 

366 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

in  Mairg  Water — and  he  knew  that,  if  there, 
it  would  soon  or  late  be  swirled  out  of  the 
Linn  or  the  Kelpie's  Pool — he  would  wait  till 
he  saw  her  wraith. 

There  were  many  things — like  certain 
stories  told  of  the  speed  of  great  vessels  at  sea, 
and  about  what  the  electricity,  out  of  which 
the  lightning  came,  could  be  made  to  do — 
which  he  doubted,  or  at  least  discounted  in 
the  telling.  But  in  the  sure  wisdom  of  his 
fathers  he  knew  there  was  no  rock  of  stum- 
bling; therefore  he  was  well  aware  that  the 
wraith  of  the  dead  comes  to  and  fro  between 
its  death-place  and  that  darkness  which  is 
deeper  than  the  mirk  of  the  blackest  night,  on 
the  night  following  its  severance  from  the 
body.  So,  he  would  wait  and  see.  If  her 
wraith  came  from  up  the  Strath  or  from  down 
the  hill,  he  would  know  that  she  had  not  died 
in  the  water.  Wherever  it  came  from,  he 
would  follow  it. 

He  had  seen  too  much,  he  muttered  again 
and  again  to  himself,  with  quaking  heart:  he 
had  seen  too  much  in  hill-gloamings  and  drear 
mountain  nights  to  have  fear  of  the  wraith  of 
a  poor  widow-body,  who  lived  no  further 
away  than  over  against  Cnoc-Ruadh  on  Tor- 
nideon.  The  moaning  and  loud  soughing  of 
the  wind  tried  him  sore.     But  the  night  was 

367 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

cloudless,  and  the  moon  hung  above  Iolair,  a 
beacon  everywhere  in  the  dark.  Then,  too, 
as  the  hours  went,  he  grew  warm  and  com- 
fortable in  his  rocky  lair;  moreover,  fresh 
text  after  text  came  into  his  mind.  In  mul- 
tiplicity of  these  was  safety;  even  were  some 
of  them  no  more  than  "  And  Chelub,  the 
brother  of  Shunah,  begat  Mehir,"  or  than  that 
(to  Murdo,  blasphemously  familiar)  saying  in 
Isaiah,  "In  that  day  shall  the  Lord  shave 
with  a  razor  that  is  hired  "—though,  sure,  to 
his  shepherd  mind,  there  was  comfortable 
word  as  of  home,  as  well  as  sacred  influence, 
in  "  And  it  shall  come  to  pass  in  that  day,  that 
a  man  shall  nourish  a  young  cow,  and  two 
sheep." 

He  had  been  dozing  when  the  first  spurt  of 
flame  broke  out  upon  Tornideon.  A  little 
later  he  roused  with  a  start,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  Pool.  There  was  a  gleam  there,  or 
somewhere;  could  it  be  the  woman  Anabal? 

Then  his  gaze  was  drawn  swift  and  stead- 
fast, as  iron  to  a  magnet.  He  realised  what 
and  where  the  flames  were.  Ardoch-beag  was 
on  fire. 

In  a  moment  there  flashed  upon  him  the 
recollection  of  Mam-Gorm,  on  the  white  mare 
Raoilt,  in  the  byre  there. 

With  the  thought  came  another,  that  he  had 

368 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

been  mad  to  believe  Anabal  was  in  the  Pool 
at  all.  She  must  have  discovered  the  body  of 
Torcall,  and  set  fire  to  the  place — corpse, 
mare,  and  byre!  There  was  not  a  moment 
to  lose.  Yet,  perhaps  it  was  Alan;  well, 
even  then,  he  muttered,  he  must  go.  But 
supposing  .  .  .  but  supposing  .  .  .  that  .  .  . 
that  Mam-Gorm  himself  .  .  . 

Murdo  did  not  know  what  to  do.  The 
dogs  would  help  him,  he  thought.  Crawling 
from  his  hiding-place,  he  whistled  to  Donn 
and  Luath.  Both  collies  had  already  crept 
from  the  fern,  and  were  standing  with  stiff- 
ened tails  and  rigid  bodies,  intently  watching 
the  shooting,  darting,  leaping,  ever-spreading 
flame  on  the  hill  opposite.  Abruptly,  Luath 
began  to  growl.  Then  Donn  stole,  whining, 
to  the  shepherd's  feet. 

"What  ails  the  dogs?"  he  muttered,  half 
angrily. 

A  few  minutes  later  his  keen  eyes  discerned 
the  cause  of  their  uneasiness.  The  full  flood 
of  the  moonlight  was  upon  the  flank  of  Tor- 
nideon,  and  it  was  now  possible  to  see  along 
the  whole  path  from  Ardoch-beag  to  the  Ford, 
"  glan  mar  a  ghrian,"  as  he  said  to  himself — 
clear  as  in  the  sunlight. 

And  this  was  the  thing  that  Murdo  the 
shepherd  saw,  to  be  with  him  to  his  death-day, 

369 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

and  to  be  for  ever  in  Strath  Iolair  a  legend  of 
terror. 

Down  the  steep  descent  that  began  to  fall 
away  a  few  yards  beyond  Ardoch-beag,  he 
saw  a  tall,  gaunt  woman,  with  rent  garments 
and  long,  loosened  hair  fluttering  in  the  wind, 
striding  down  the  hillway,  often  with  wild 
gestures.  And  before  the  woman  trampled 
and  snorted  a  horse,  mad  with  the  fear  of  the 
flame,  and  knowing,  too,  it  may  be,  the  awful 
burden  of  death  it  bore,  now  swung  crosswise 
upon  its  back.  As  a  mad  horse  will  do,  it 
pranced  in  a  strange,  stiff-,  fantastic  way : 
wild  to  leap  forward  and  race  like  the  wind 
from  what  lay  behind,  from  what  jerked  and 
jolted  above ;  yet  constrained  as  by  another 
than  human  force. 

Ever  and  again,  in  a  momentary  lull  of  the 
wind,  Murdo  could  hear  its  shrill,  appalling 
neighing.  Once,  too,  he  shrank,  because  of 
the  screaming  laughter  of  the  woman. 

Furlong  by  furlong  he  watched  this  ghastly 
march  of  the  dead  and  dying.  Were  it  not 
for  the  flames  at  Ardoch-beag,  where  both 
house  and  byre  were  now  caught  in  a  swirl- 
ing blaze,  he  would  have  believed  the  other 
to  be  no  more  than  a  vision. 

With  difficulty  he  silenced  the  dogs.  He 
would  stay  where  he  was  now,  and  see  what 

37o 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

was  going  to  be  done  that  night :  for  it  was 
clear  that  Anabal,  seemingly  mad,  and  having 
set  fire  to  Ardoch-beag,  was  now  driving 
Raoilt  and  its  corpse-burthen  either  down  to 
Mairg  Water,  or  with  intent  to  cross  and  go 
up  the  mountain  of  Mam-Gorm. 

This  last,  indeed,  was  evidently  her  aim: 
for,  when  at  last  the  Ford  was  reached,  Murdo 
could  see  her  striving  to  make  the  affrighted 
mare  enter  the  shallows.  Raoilt,  however, 
would  not  budge.  With  forelegs  planted  firm- 
ly, with  head  thrown  up,  quivering  flanks, 
and  long  tail  slashing  this  way  and  that,  the 
white  mare  showed  some  strange  horror  of 
the  swift-running  ford-water.  Suddenly  she 
swung  round,  and  with  a  grotesque  pranc- 
ing moved  along  the  north  bank  toward  the 
Linn. 

They  were  now  close  to  him.  Murdo  could 
see  the  bloodshot,  gleaming  eyeballs  of  Raoilt : 
the  white  set  face  and  staring  eyes  of  Anabal. 
Either  the  roar  of  the  whirlpool,  or  the  sight 
of  one  of  the  collies  slinking  terrified  through 
the  fern,  added  a  new  terror  to  the  mare.  She 
swerved  wildly.  The  burden  she  bore  became 
still  further  unloosed.  With  scraping  hoofs 
she  pawed  at  a  bank  of  heather,  in  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  find  solid  footing.  A  plunge  .  .  . 
a    fall   backward  ...  a    staggering   recovery 

37* 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

among  the  very  rocks  of  the  Linn  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  freedom  at  last! 

But,  for  the  second  time  since  Murdo  had 
last  seen  him  in  life,  Torcall  Cameron  was 
hurled  headlong  into  the  Linn  o'  Mairg. 

With  a  cry  the  shepherd  sprang  forward. 
Anabal  heard,  but  did  not  see.  All  she  knew 
was  the  roar  of  the  linn,  the  wail  of  the  kel- 
pie, and  that — that  withering  scream  of  the 
dead  man. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  on  the  verge  of  the 
cataract.  Her  arms  were  upraised :  her  whole 
body  moved  with  one  unutterable  supplication. 

"Fergus!    Fergus!" 

The  wild  appeal  rang  through  the  night, 
above  the  turmoil  of  the  falling  water,  the  in- 
creasing moan  and  loud  blasting  vehemence 
of  the  wind. 

Murdo  did  not  see  her  leap  or  fall.  His 
gaze  had  for  a  moment  sought  the  mare,  who, 
at  that  cry,  had  leaped  as  though  stung  by  fire, 
and  was  careering  at  breakneck  speed  up  the 
boulder-strewn  bank  by  which  she  had  come. 

But  when  the  shepherd  looked  again,  Ana- 
bal Gilchrist  was  gone. 

Throughout  that  night  there  was  a  wilder 
sound  on  the  hillside  than  any  wail  of  the 
wind.     This  was  the  screaming  of  the  white 

372 


The    Mountain   Lovers 

horse,  as,  wrought  now  to  a  death-madness, 
it  leaped  waywardly  through  the  dark,  so 
passing  from  height  to  height  upward  along 
the  whole  mountainal  flank  of  Iolair. 

At  dawn,  in  the  sheiling  high  up  on  Druim- 
nan-Damh,  Sorcha  awoke,  trembling. 

For  a  time  she  listened  in  awe  to  the  ma- 
jesty of  the  wind,  a  vast  choric  chant  that 
filled  the  morning-twilight  with  an  ocean  of 
flowing  sound.  Then,  again  and  again,  she 
heard  that  strange,  horrible  scream. 

Alan  stirred.  She  whispered  as  she  drew 
closer  to  him.  He,  too,  listened.  A  great  fear 
lay  upon  both.  This  screaming  voice  in  the 
night  was  an  omen  of  sorrow,  of  doom.  Who 
could  it  be  but  the  Bandruidh — that  evil  sor- 
ceress of  the  hills,  dark  daughter  of  the 
Haughty  Father,  who  had  already  won  the 
soul  out  of  Nial? 

Sleep  was  impossible.  It  was  banished 
even  from  thought,  when  a  wild  neighing 
close  to  the  walls  of  the  cot  made  Sorcha  cry 
out  and  cling  to  Alan  as  though  death  were 
already  upon  them. 

They  lay  shuddering.  Clearly  this  was  one 
of  the  water-bulls  or  water-horses  which 
roam  the  mountain-ways  on  nights  of  storm: 
dread  demon-creatures,  to  see  whom  even  is 
almost  certain  death. 

373 


The   Mountain   Lovers 

"  It  will  not  be  long  till  sunrise,"  Alan  whis- 
pered ;  and  by  that  Sorcha  was  comforted,  for 
she  knew  that  the  ravening  thing  outside 
would  have  to  haste  back  to  loch  or  river  or 
sea. 

And  by  daybreak,  in  truth,  the  beast  was 
already  away.  They  heard  the  clamour  of 
its  hoofs  against  the  granite  stones  and  rock, 
as  it  sped  upward  still. 

When,  hand  clasping  hand,  they  ventured  to 
go  out,  they  could  see  no  living  thing,  but  an 
eagle  soaring  high  above  the  extreme  peak  of 
Iolair :  for  the  light  of  the  new  glorious  day 
was  in  their  eyes  as  they  faced  the  Ridge  of 
the  Stags. 

But  suddenly  Sorcha  caught  sight  of  some- 
thing white  leaping  against  the  sunrise. 

Alan's  gaze  followed  her  trembling  arm  and 
outstretched  finger.  He,  too,  saw,  but  unre- 
cognisingly,  a  white  horse,  prancing  and 
screaming  along  the  verge  of  the  granite 
precipice  of  Sgorr-Glan. 

The  mad  beast  was  now  on  the  Sgorr  itself. 
Behind  were  deep  corries  and  ravines :  in 
front,  nothing  but  the  flaming  disc  of  fire, 
nothing  but  that  sheer  blank  wall  of  granite, 
straight  from  the  brow  of  the  Sgorr  to  where 
the  Sruantsrha  surged  darkly  its  tortuous 
way,  two  thousand  feet  below. 

374 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

A  faint,  impalpable  mist  was  in  the  air. 
This,  doubtless,  it  was  that  made  the  white 
horse  loom  larger  and  larger,  till  it  stood  out 
against  the  morning,  vast  as  Liath-Macha,  the 
untamable  phantom  steed,  "  grey  to  white- 
ness," that  Cuculain  the  Hero  rode  triumph- 
antly through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death. 

Then  it  was  as  though  it  leaped  against  the 
sun  itself. 

XII 

Week  after  week  went  by,  changelessly 
fine,  so  that  in  the  Strath  men  began  to 
shake  their  heads  ominously  because  of  the 
long  drought.  In  the  memory  of  none  had 
there  been  an  autumn  so  lovely.  For  a  brief 
spell,  in  mid  August,  coming  indeed  with  the 
storm  of  wind  which  had  helped  the  flames  ut- 
terly to  consume  the  few  poor  buildings  of 
Anabal  Gilchrist  on  Tornideon,  great  clouds 
had  travelled  inland  from  the  Atlantic,  and 
had  burst  floodingly  upon  hill  and  valley.  But 
in  less  than  a  week  the  sky  was  clear  again, 
and  of  a  richer,  deeper  blue.  The  whole 
mountain-land  was  veiled  in  beauty. 

The  woods  at  the  end  of  October  were, 
other  than  the  pine-forests,  a  blaze  of  glory. 

375 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Few  leaves  had  fallen,  except  from  the  limes 
and  sycamores,  and  these  sparsely  only  .  .  . 
scarce  enough  to  lay  a  pathway  of  flakes 
of  yellow  gold  before  the  hinds  and  fawns 
that  trooped  through  the  sunlit  glades. 
The  innumerable  rowan-trees  wore  fiery 
hues  upon  their  feathery  foliage:  everywhere 
the  scarlet  berries  suspended  in  blood-red 
clusters  against  the  blue  sky  or  the  cool  green- 
ness. 

The  dream,  the  spell,  was  not  only  upon  the 
beautiful  green  earth.  It  lay  elsewhere  than 
there,  or  in  the  deeps  of  heaven :  elsewhere 
than  on  the  quiet  waters  which  slept  against 
the  shores  beyond  the  mountains  and  slum- 
bered immeasurably  toward  the  ever-reced- 
ing west,  with  a  soft  moaning  only,  wonder- 
ful and  sweet  to  hear. 

For  it  was  upon  the  heart  and  in  the  brain 
of  each  of  the  mountaineers  of  Iolair:  but 
most  upon  Sorcha  and  Alan. 

For  them  the  days  had  gone  past,  days  of 
rapt  happiness  in  that  golden  weather.  Al- 
ready the  world  had  become  to  them  no  more 
than  a  dream.  They  went  to  and  fro,  hushed, 
upon  the  hills,  each  oblivious  of  all  save  the 
other,  all  save  the  ceaseless  thrilling  wonder 
of  the  pageant  of  the  hours  from  dawn  to 
moonset.     That  strange  rapture  which  comes 

376 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

at  times  to  isolated,  visionary  dreamers  upon 
the  hills,  wrought  a  spell  upon  Alan.  Scarce 
less  was  it  upon  Sorcha,  and  that  less  only, 
if  at  all,  because  of  the  second  life  that  she 
sustained.  The  "  mirdeeay  "  was  a  glamour 
in  their  eyes,  in  their  mind;,  in  their  heart, 
from  the  hour  of  the  waning  star  to  the  com- 
ing of  night.  Not  all  an  evil  thing  is  it  to 
dream.  The  world  well  lost!  Ah,  shadowy- 
eyed  dreamers  that  know  the  secret  wisdom, 
it  is  well  to  dream ! 

None  of  the  Strath-folk  saw  them  now. 
The  people  murmured  against  them  because 
of  the  tragic  mystery  of  the  deaths  of  Torcall 
Cameron  and  Anabal  Gilchrist.  Little  had 
been  learned  from  Murdo,  and  none  now  en- 
countered Oona  or  Nial.  But  a  dropped 
word,  a  reluctant  admission,  a  careful  eva- 
sion, from  the  shepherd,  went  far.  Hints 
grew  into  a  legend :  soon  a  perverted  yet  not 
wholly  misleading  version  of  the  facts  became 
current. 

On  the  same  morning  when,  from  the  moun- 
tain-sheiling,  they  had  seen  the  white  mare, 
screaming  in  her  madness,  leap  from  the 
precipice  of  Sgorr-Glan,  as  though  full 
against  the  sun,  Alan  and  Sorcha  learned 
from  Murdo  what  had  happened.  Below  all 
the  grief  and  horror  of  the  double  tragedy, 

377 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

there  was  one  thing  not  to  be  gainsaid.  The 
hand  of  God  was  here. 

After  their  first  passionate  sorrow  they 
whispered  this  thing  the  one  to  the  other.  It 
was  ordained.  God  had  wrought  thus  with 
the  thread  of  all  their  lives.  There  was  none 
to  blame,  neither  Torcall,  nor  Anabal,  nor 
the  child  Oona,  unwitting  instrument  of  the 
Divine  will.  Is  duilich  cuir  an  aghaidh  dan: 
Who  can  oppose  Fate,  who  set  himself 
against  Destiny? 

A  strange  thing,  that  had  a  terrifying  sig- 
nificance for  the  Strath-dwellers,  was  this : 
never  were  the  bodies  of  Torcall  Cameron  and 
Anabal  Gilchrist  found.  The  Linn  was 
dragged,  the  Kelpie's  Pool  poled  over  and 
over,  the  lower  reaches  of  Mairg  Water  were 
examined  under  every  shelving  bank,  or  wher- 
ever a  sunken  bole  or  submerged  boulder 
might  have  caught  the  castaways.  No  trace 
was  seen  anywhere,  then  or  later.  Possibly 
it  was  true,  what  an  old  man  of  Inverglas 
averred,  that  there  was  a  slope  at  the  bottom 
of  the  Kelpie's  Pool,  which  ran  in  beneath  a 
shelving  ledge,  whence  the  water  poured  down 
a  funnel-like  passage  into  a  cavern  filled  with 
stalactites,  through  the  innumerable  holes  and 
crannies  at  the  base  of  which  the  flow  van- 
ished even  as  it  came. 

378 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

He  had  this  knowledge,  he  said,  from  his 
father  before  him,  who  in  the  great  drought 
of  the  first  year  of  the  century  had  seen  the 
Pool  shrunken  so  that  a  man  might  stand  in 
it  and  yet  not  be  wet  above  the  knees.  "  And 
the  word  of  my  father  will  not  be  for  doubt- 
ing," the  old  crofter  added :  "  for  he  lived 
with  God  before  him  till  he  died,  and  now  was 
with  his  own  folk  in  Flaitheanas  itself,  prais- 
ing Himself  for  evermore." 

Thereafter,  as  was  but  natural,  the  home 
upon  Tornideon  being  no  more,  Alan  and 
Sorcha  lived  at  Mam-Gorm.  There  was  none 
to  dispute  their  possession,  for  Torcall  Cam- 
eron was  without  blood-kin,  and  all  that  was 
his  was  Sorcha's. 

So  week  after  week  went  by.  Even  in  the 
Strath  the  people  said :  "  It  was  willed." 
There  was  no  man  nor  woman  among  them, 
even  of  those  who  were  angry  with  Sorcha 
that  she  was  not  wedded  before  the  minister 
— forgetful,  always,  that  it  was  the  minister 
who  had  refused  to  wed  Alan  and  Sorcha,  be- 
cause of  the  feud  between  Torcall  and  Ana- 
bal  (and,  though  none  had  inkling  of  it,  be- 
cause of  the  sin  he  knew  of  that  lay  between 
them,  the  sin  that  lived  and  moved  and  had 
its  being  in  the  person  of  the  child  Oona)  — 
and  still  more  who  were  angry  with  her  be- 

379 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

cause  she  came  never  among  them,  but  was 
as  one  lost  to  the  world,  and  she  too  with  the 
second  life  in  her,  when  she  ought  to  be  see- 
ing and  talking  to  older  womenfolk — there 
was  none  among  these  who,  in  his  or  her 
heart  of  hearts,  did  not  recognise  that  it  is 
ever  an  idle  thing  for  small  wings  to  baffle 
against  a  great  wind.  It  was  to  be:  it  would 
be.  That  was  the  unspoken  refrain  of  all 
thoughts :  the  undertone  of  all  comments. 

The  tragic  end  of  Anabal  Gilchrist,  the 
doom  that  had  fulfilled  itself  for  Torcall  Cam- 
eron :  what  was  either  but  apiece  with  the 
passing  of  the  ancient  language,  though  none 
wished  it  to  go;  with  the  exile  of  the  sons, 
though  they  would  fain  live  and  die  where 
their  fathers  wooed  their  mothers;  with  the 
coming  of  strangers,  and  strange  ways,  and 
a  new  bewildering  death-cold  spirit,  that  had 
no  respect  for  the  green  graves,  and  jeered 
at  ancient  things  and  the  wisdom  of  old 
— strangers  whom  none  had  sought,  none 
wished,  and  whose  coming  meant  the  going  of 
even  the  few  hillfolk  who  prospered  in  the 
machar,  the  fertile  meadows  and  pastures 
along  the  mountain  bases?  It  was  to  be:  it 
would  be. 

Among  the  old  there  was  exceeding  bitter- 
ness.   An  angry  and  a  brooding  pain  frowned 

380 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

in  many  hearts.  But,  alas,  what  good  to  meet 
the  inevitable  with  wailing?  What  had  to  be, 
surely  would  be.  Old  wifeless  men,  old  child- 
less women,  took  comfort  in  that  bitter-sweet 
saying  of  the  Psalmist :  "  is  iad  iobairtean  Dhe 
spiorad  briste  " — "  the  sacrifice  of  God  is  a 
broken  spirit." 

But,  with  the  harvesting,  the  Strath-folk 
forgot  for  a  while  the  very  existence  of  the 
mountain-lovers. 

Smitten  with  the  strange  rapt  elation  of 
their  dream,  Alan  and  Sorcha  still  went  to 
and  fro  as  though  spellbound.  Sometimes  he 
herded  the  cows  alone :  as  before,  Sorcha 
milked  the  sweet-breath  kine,  singing  low  her 
songs  of  holy  St.  Bridget  or  old-world  ca- 
dences rare  and  nigh- forgotten  now  as  the 
Fonnsheen,  the  fairy  melodies  once  wont  to 
be  heard  on  the  hills  and  in  remote  places. 
But,  though  apart  for  a  brief  while,  it  was 
only  to  dream  the  more. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  Alan  knew  in  his  heart 
that  this  could  not  endure.  It  could  not  be 
for  over  long:  God,  soon  or  late,  lays  winter 
upon  the  heart,  as  well  as  upon  the  song  of 
the  bird,  the  bloom  of  the  flower. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  no  trouble  because  of 
this.  There  is,  at  times,  in  deep  happiness,  a 
gloom  as  of  dark  water  filled  with  sunlight. 

38i 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

While  the  glow  is  there,  a  living  joy,  the 
gloom  is  no  more  than  the  quiet  sorrow  of 
the  world. 

Often,  of  late,  he  had  noticed  upon  the  hill- 
side, upon  brier  and  bramble,  fern-covert  or 
dwarf-elder,  that  indescribable  shadow  of 
light,  visible  too  at  full  noon  in  that  golden 
weather  as  well  as  at  the  passing  of  the  sun : 
that  glow  of  omen,  known  of  Celtic  poets  and 
seers  in  far-gone  days.  The  first  line  of  a 
fragmentary  rune,  come  down  from  one  of 
these  singers,  who  walked  nearer  to  nature 
than  does  any  now  among  the  sons  of  men, 
was  upon  his  lips  over  and  over,  because  of 
this  thing: 

"  Tha  bruaillean  air  aghaidh  nan  torn." 

"  There  is  boding  gloom  on  the  face  of  the  bushes." 

Once  only  the  gloom  lay  upon  him,  the 
gloom  that  is  upon  the  mind  as  a  dark  cloud 
upon  a  field  of  grain.  What  if  ill  should  have 
come  to  Sorcha? 

He  turned,  and  went  swiftly  home.  The 
gloaming  had  fallen,  and  Sorcha  was  sitting 
before  the  flaming  peats,  with  clasped  hands 
and  dreaming  eyes.  She  was  crooning,  half 
breathing,  half  crooning,  a  song,  low  and 
sweet  against  his  ear  as  the  noise  of  a  run- 
ning brook  heard  in   sleep  as  one   fares  by 

382  , 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

green  pastures  under  a  moon  strange  and 
new  in  a  strange  land.  And  the  song  was 
one  he  had  not  known,  not  since  he  was  a 
child,  and  heard  Morag,  the  wife  of  Ken- 
neth, foster-brother  of  Fergus  Gilchrist,  sing 
it  before,  in  a  day  of  mourning,  she  brought 
forth  her  firstborn: 

"An'  O,  an'  O,  St.  Bride's  sweet  song  'tis  I  am  hear- 
ing, dearie, 

Dearie,  dearie,  dearie,  my  wee  white  babe  that's 
weary, 

Weary,  weary,  weary,  with  this  my  womb  sae 
weary, 

And  Bride's  sweet  song  ye  hear  it  too,  and  stir  and 
sigh,  my  dearie! 

"Oh,  oh,  leanaban-mo, 
Wee  hands  that  give  me  pain  and  woe: 
Pain  and  woe,  but  be  it  so, 
Tis  his  dear  self  that  now  doth  grow, 
Leanaban-mo,  leanaban-mo, 
'Tis  his  dear  self  one  day  you'll  know, 
Leanaban-mo,  leanaban-mo! 

"  St.  Bridget  dear,  the  cradle  show, 
My  baby  comes,  and  I  must  go, 
Leanaban-mo,  leanaban-mo! 
Arone!  .   .  .  Aro! 
Arone!  .  .  .  Ard!" 

He  had  stood  in  the  shadow,  silent,  listen- 
ing with  awe  and  a  strange  joy.     His  heart 

383 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

yearned  to  go  to  her,  but  he  knew  that  a 
mother's  first  tears  were  in  the  dreaming  eyes, 
and  that  it  was  not  for  him,  nor  any  save 
God,  to  be  seeing  them. 

So  Alan  turned,  and  went  up  through  the 
dusk  to  the  low  green  summit  of  Cnoc-na- 
shee,  a  brief  way  from  the  sheiling.  And 
when  he  was  there  he  looked  and  saw  nothing 
in  all  the  light-gloom  sky  but  one  star  low  in 
the  south — Rcul-na-dhnil,  the  star  of  hope. 
Peace  was  in  his  heart.  He  kneeled  down  and 
made  a  prayer  for  Sorcha,  and  the  child  she 
bore,  and  for  him  too.  And  when  he  rose, 
and  went  home,  and  looked  back  at  green 
Cnoc-na-shee,  he  saw  there  for  a  moment  a 
figure  as  of  an  angel,  shining  bright. 

Night  and  day  they  were  alone  there. 
Murdo  the  shepherd  was  up  at  the  high  sheil- 
ing on  Ben  Iolair,  and  rarely  came  to  Mam- 
Gorm  save  to  help  with  the  kye,  or  do  what 
was  needed  about  the  steading.  Oona,  too, 
was  seldom  seen  of  them ;  and  of  late,  even  she 
had  not  always  come  at  sunrise  for  the  food 
Sorcha  placed  for  her  on  the  bench  by  the 
door  each  morning.  As  for  Nial,  he  was  for 
long  seen  of  none,  save  Oona,  and  where  and 
when  that  was  no  one  knew. 

As  October  waned,  the  day  of  the  moun- 
tain lovers  became  more  and  more  a  life  of 

384 


The   Mountain    Lovers 

joy.  Hand  in  hand  they  would  sit  on  the 
bench  in  the  sun,  happily  content:  or  dream, 
hand  clasping  hand,  before  the  glowing  peats. 
It  was  in  vain  that  Murdo,  fearing  "  the 
quiet  madness,"  reproached  Alan,  urging 
upon  him  that  he  should  go  down  into  Inver- 
glas  and  see  to  the  sale  of  the  cattle  and  the 
sheep.  The  young  man  shook  his  head,  smiled 
gently  at  the  shepherd,  and  once  at  least  mur- 
mured these  ominous  words :  "  There  is  a 
time  for  all  things,  and  it  is  my  time  to  be 
still.     I  have  peace." 

Sorcha,  being  heavy  with  child,  could  not 
now  walk  far,  and  indeed  cared  little  to  go 
beyond  the  door-bench,  or,  at  farthest,  to  the 
green  slope  of  the  hillock  of  Cnoc-na-shee. 
Her  beauty  had  not  waned  because  of  her 
trouble.  Her  eyes  had  grown  more  large  and 
beautiful:  wonderful  stars  of  light  to  Alan 
alwavs — stars  that  shone  out  of  infinite 
depths,  wherein  his  soul  could  sink  till  it 
reached  that  ninth  wave  of  darkness  which  is 
the  sea  of  light  beating  upon  the  coasts  of 
heaven. 

So,  ever  and  again,  glad  with  his  joy  and 
ungrievingly  gloomed  because  of  the  shadow 
that  day  by  day  wove  a  closer  veil  about  his 
spirit,  he  not  grieving  because  not  in  himself 
knowing  the  mystery,  he  went  out  upon  the 

385 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

hillside  or  into  the  forest.  Often  it  was,  then, 
that  he  heard  the  singing  of  Oona  in  the 
woods  at  sunrise  and  during  the  hot  noons. 
Sometimes  now,  too,  when  late-wandering 
through  the  forest  at  gloaming,  he  saw  afar 
off  the  still  figure  of  Nial  crouching  by  the 
tarn,  or  seated  with  bent  head  among  the 
flags  and  rushes  of  the  drought-dried  pools. 
More  than  once,  as  he  went  home  by  the  re- 
moter glades,  he  heard  the  elf-man  chanting 
wildly  among  the  pines  at  night. 

It  was  on  one  such  evening  that,  returning 
with  his  mind  strangely  troubled  because  of 
the  soulless  man  of  the  woods,  and  of  his  fu- 
tile quest  and  the  bitter  wrong  and  pity  of  it, 
he  was  met  by  Murdo  with  startling  news. 
Sorcha  had  had  a  vision ;  and,  being  wrought 
by  it,  had  fallen  into  premature  labour.  But 
she  was  not  alone.  He,  Murdo,  had  brought 
his  foster-sister,  Anna  MacAnndra,  back  with 
him  from  the  clachan  by  the  Ford  of  the 
Sheep :  for  as  he  had  gone  down  with  some 
young  ewes  that  noontide  he  had  seen  a  look 
like  death  in  Sorcha's  face,  so  white  and 
drawn  was  it  with  sudden  pain.  Anna,  he 
added,  was  a  leal  friend  and  dear  to  Sorcha, 
so  that  all  was  well. 

And  that  night,  in  truth,  the  child  of  their 
great  love  was  born  to  them.    A  night  it  was 

386 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

of  pain  and  joy,  of  agony  and  rapture.  But 
when  at  last  the  long-waited  dawn  came — 
when,  as  the  woman  Anna  said,  there  was 
no  more  need  to  fear,  for  the  death-hour  of 
woman  in  travail  was  well  past — there  was 
deep  breathing  of  quiet  happiness  upon  the 
sleeping  mother,  deep  slumber  of  birth- 
weariness  upon  the  child  that  lay  against  her 
breast,  deep  peace  in  the  heart  of  Alan. 

It  was  not  till  the  eve  of  that  day  that  Sor- 
cha  told  him  of  her  vision.  She  had  been  sit- 
ting in  the  sun  upon  Cnoc-na-shee,  when  she 
was  amazed  to  see  three  people  pass  from  the 
forest  and  make  their  way  up  the  hill.  Be- 
cause of  the  noon-glare  she  could  not  discern 
who  they  were,  though  each  seemed  vaguely 
familiar.  Dark  in  the  glowing  light,  their 
figures  were  visible  till  they  reached  the  an- 
cient stones  beside  the  cairn  of  Marsail. 
There  she  thought  they  passed  into  the  long 
hollow  beyond;  but,  when  she  looked  again, 
she  saw  that  they  were  now  four  in  number, 
and  that  they  were  coming  down  the  kye-path 
to  Mam-Gorm.  Her  heart  had  begun  to 
waver ;  but  it  was  not  till  they  were  half-way 
down  that  she  recognised  the  white  faces  of 
them:  Torcall  her  father  and  Marsail  her 
mother,   Anabal   and    her   man    Fergus.      All 

387 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

four  walked  in  peace.  And  she  heard  a  thin 
song  in  the  air,  that  may  have  been  from 
them  or  may  have  been  behind  her:  a  song 
that  said,  "  Beannachd  do  t'anam  is  buaidh," 
"  Blessing  to  thy  soul,  and  victory,"  "  Bless- 
ing, blessing  to  thy  soul,  and  peace !  "  But 
still  the  spirit  in  her  was  strong,  for  why 
should  she  fear,  dead,  those  whom  she  had 
loved,  living? 

But  as  they  drew  nearer  she  saw  the  woman 
Anabal  waving  her  arms  slowly  as  she  ad- 
vanced, even  as  the  prophesying  women  of  old 
did  before  the  Lord;  and,  so  waving,  she 
chanted  a  rune.  And  the  rune  that  she 
chanted  was  the  Rune  of  the  Passion  of  the 
Mother,  that  no  man  has  ever  heard  since  time 
was,  and  that  has  been  in  the  ears  of  those 
women,  only,  who  are  to  lose  life  in  the 
giving  of  a  life  unto  Life.  So,  hearing  this 
rune,  she  fell  sobbing,  with  the  pains  already 
upon  her:  and,  but  for  the  coming  of  Murdo 
with  Anna,  she  would  have  borne  her  child 
on  Cnoc-na-shee,  the  fairy  hill — and  who 
knows  but  its  doom  might  have  been  that  of 
Nial  the  soulless? 

This  vision,  Sorcha  added,  she  would  not 
have  told  to  any  one  had  she  felt  the  death- 
breath  enter  her  as  the  child  was  delivered ; 
but  now  that  the  boy  was  born,  and  was  so 

388 


The    Mountain   Lovers 

fair  and  lusty,  blue-eyed  and  golden-haired  as 
his  father  had  been  before  him  when  he  too 
was  a  breast-babe,  and,  too,  that  all  was  well 
with  her,  she  told  it.  Moreover,  sure,  no 
harm  could  come  of  a  song  of  peace:  and  as 
for  the  Rune  of  the  Passion  of  Mary,  it  was  no 
more  than  an  idle  tale,  that  saying  of  Anna 
MacAnndra's  and  of  other  women,  that  who- 
so shall  hear  it  shall  surely  die  within  the 
birth-month. 

And  because  of  her  smiling  lips  and  loving 
eyes,  and  of  the  fair,  lusty  child  whose  little 
hands  wandered  clingingly  about  the  white 
breast  of  Sorcha,  Alan  believed  that  the  an- 
cient wisdom  was  an  idle  tale. 

When  the  dark  fell,  and  pinelogs  were 
thrown  upon  the  rcdhot  peats,  the  two  talked 
in  low,  hushed  tones,  with  eyes  that  ever 
sought  each  other  lovingly — dreamed  and 
talked,  whispered  and  dreamed,  far  into  the 
night. 

Then,  with  close-clasping  arm  holding  her 
child  to  her  bosom,  as  though  in  her  exceed- 
ing weakness — a  weakness  nigh  unto  death, 
now  that  it  seemed  to  float  up  to  her  from 
within,  rather  than  descend  upon  her  from 
above — she  feared  her  white  blossom  of  love 
might  be  taken  from  her,  Sorcha  sank  sud- 
denly into  drowning  sleep. 

389 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Sitting  by  the  bedside,  with  his  hand  strok- 
ing or  holding  hers,  Alan  revolved  other 
thoughts  than  those  of  love  only. 

Passing  strange,  passing  strange,  this  mys- 
tery of  motherhood  over  which  he  brooded 
obscurely.  And,  truly,  who  can  know  the 
long,  bitter  travail  of  the  spirit,  as  well  as 
the  pangs  of  the  body,  which  many  women  en- 
dure— except  just  such  a  woman,  suffering  in 
just  that  way?  Can  any  man  know?  Hardly 
can  it  be  so.  For  though  a  man  can  under- 
stand the  agony  of  birthtide,  and  even  the  long 
ache  and  strain  of  the  double  life,  can  he  com- 
prehend the  baffled  sense  of  overmastering 
weakness,  the  vague  informulate  cry  against 
all  powers  that  be — Man,  overlord  of  the 
womb :  God,  overlord  of  men.  How  many 
women  have  prayed  not  to  Him,  but  to  the 
one  Pontiff  before  whom  all  thoughts 
bow  down,  worshipping  in  dread :  to  that 
shadowy  Lord  of  the  veiled  face  whom 
some  call  Death,  that  Woman  of  the  compas- 
sionate eyes  whom  others  call  Oblivion,  be- 
cause of  the  poppied  draught  she  gives 
the  weary  to  drink,  and  the  quiet  glooms  of 
rest  that  she  holds  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand, 
and  the  hushed  breath  of  her  that  is  Forget- 
fulness. 

Thoughts   such   as   these,  though   in  crude 

390 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

words  and  simple  symbols,  were  in  Alan's 
mind. 

No,  he  knew :  never  again  could  he  even 
listen  to  men  jeering  at  birth.  He,  though  he 
had  come  to  her  virginal-pure,  yet  feared 
Sorcha's  eyes  at  times,  because — though  not 
knowing  for  what  it  was — of  the  deep-buried 
spiritual  anathema  which,  in  the  gaze  of  the 
purest  and  noblest  of  women,  affronts  the 
chained  brute  that  is  in  the  man. 

Ah,  do  men  know,  do  men  know — many  a 
woman  cries  in  her  heart — do  men  know  that 
a  woman  with  child  dies  daily :  that  she  wakes 
up  to  die,  and  that  she  lies  down  to  die : 
and  that  even  as  hourly  she  dies,  so  hourly 
does  the  child  inherit  life?  Do  they  know 
that  her  body  is  the  temple  of  a  new  soul? 
What  men  are  they,  in  any  land,  who  pro- 
fane the  sacred  altars?  Death  was  of  old 
the  just  penalty  of  those  who  defiled  the 
holy  place  where  godhood  stood  revealed 
in  stone  or  wood  or  living  Bread :  shall  they 
go  free  who  defile  the  temple  of  the  human 
soul? 

"  Sure,  sure,"  Alan  breathed  rather  than 
whispered,  with  some  such  thought  as  this 
in  his  mind,  "  sure  I  am  the  priest  of  God, 
and  she  there  my  temple  .  .  .  and  lo,  my 
God !  "  .  .  .  and  with  that  he  leaned  over  and 

391 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

kissed  the  little  rosy  fingers,  and  the  hot  tears 
in  his  eyes  fell  upon  Sorcha's  breast,  so  that 
she  stirred  in  her  sleep  and  smiled,  dreaming 
that  a  soft  rain  was  falling  upon  her  out  of 
the  Healing  Fountain  of  Tears  that  is  in  the 
midmost  Heaven. 

It  was  at  sunrise  that  the  door  opened  and 
Oona  entered.  The  child  was  wet  with  dew 
which  glistered  all  over  her  as  though  she 
were  a  new-plucked  flower. 

"  Ah,  birdeen,  it  is  you !  "  whispered  Alan 
softly,  lest  the  sleepers  should  wake.  "  See, 
I  have  been  dreaming  and  sleeping  all  night 
before  the  peats." 

Oona  stared  at  the  bed,  where  all  she  could 
see  was  Sorcha's  pale  face  among  its  mass  of 
dusky  hair. 

"Is  it  true,  Alan?  That  .  .  .  over  there 
...  is  that  true  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  dear." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  a  baby  has  come  to 
Sorcha?" 

"  It  is  Himself  that  sent  it." 

"  Alan,  has  it  a  soul  ?  " 

"  A  soul  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  sure  no  evil  eye  is 
upon  it,  to  the  Stones  be  it  said !  But  why  do 
you  ask 'that  thing?" 

The  child  sighed,  but  made  no  answer,  her 

392 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

gaze  wandering  from  Alan  round  the  room, 
and  then  to  where  Sorcha  lay. 

'  Why  do  you  say  that,  Oona  ?  It  is  not 
a  safe  thing  to  say:  sure,  it  is  not  a  good 
wishing.  Who  knows  who  may  be  hearing, 
though  I  wish  evil  to  no  one,  banned  or 
blest !  " 

"  I  see  no  one,"  Oona  began  calmly :  "  I  see 
no  one,  and  how  can  no  one  hear?  But  I  will 
not  be  for  saying  an  unlucky  thing:  sure,  you 
know  that,  dear  Alan.  Happiness  be  in  this 
house!  .  .  .  And,  now,  I  will  be  going,  Alan, 
for  I  .  .  ." 

"Going?  Hush-sh!  wait,  Oona,  wait:  sure, 
you  will  be  wanting  to  see  the  little  one?" 

"  I  want  to  see  Nial." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  He  must  not  come  .  .  .  just  now." 

"Why?" 

"  At  dawn  we  went  up  to  the  top  of  the 
hillock,  for  the  '  quiet  people  '  are  ever  away 
by  then,  it  is  said.  And  we  prayed.  I  prayed, 
and  Nial  said  whatever  I  said.  And  then,  at 
sunrise,  we  rose,  and  went  three  times  round 
Cnoc-na-shee  south-ways,  and  each  time  cried 
Djayseenl! " * 

1  Deasiul:  "  the  way  of  the  south  [i.e.  of  the  sun] 
(to  you!)"  From  deas,  the  south,  and  seol,  way  of, 
direction.     The    common    Gaelic    exclamation    for 

393 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

"  And  what  was  it  you  would  be  praying, 
Oona?" 

"  That  no  soul  might  be  in  the  body  of 
Sorcha's  baby." 

Alan  stared  at  her,  too  amazed  at  first  to  be 
angry. 

"What  madness  is  this,  lassie?" 

"  Sure  it  is  no  madness  at  all,  at  all,  Alan ! 
It  is  a  good  thought,  and  no  madness.  .  .  . 
For  .  .  .  for  why.  .  .  .  There  is  poor  Nial ; 
and  when  Murdo  met  him  on  the  hillside  last 
night,  and  told  him  about  Sorcha,  Nial  found 
me  out  by  calling  through  the  woods  like  a 
cuckoo,  and  sure  a  good  way  too,  for  there 
are  no  cooaks  now ;  and  then  he  and  I  hoped 
the  baby  would  have  no  soul  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

"  Hush-sh !  Hush-sh  !  Enough  !  enough  ! 
bi  savach!  I  am  not  being  angered  with  you, 
because  of  the  good  thought  that  was  in  your 
heart.  But  say  these  things  no  more.  Come ; 
look  at  Sorcha  and  the  child." 

With  a  light,  swift  step  Oona  moved  across 
the  room.  Silently  she  looked  into  Sorcha's 
face ;  silently  she  stood  looking  awhile  at  the 
child. 

Alan  had  no  word  from  her,  to  his  sorrow. 

luck,  in  the  Highlands  at  any  rate.  Many  old 
crofters  still,  on  coming  out  of  a  morning,  cry 
"  Deasiul!" 

394 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

Steadfastly  she  stared ;  but  breathed  no  whis- 
per even.  Then^  with  a  faint  sigh,  she 
turned,  moved  like  a  ray  of  light  across  the 
room,  and,  before  he  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, she  was  gone. 

Bewildered  at  the  child  going  thus  quietly 
away,  he  went  slowly  to  the  door;  but  she 
had  already  vanished.  So  small  a  lass  could 
soon  be  lost  in  that  sunlit  sea  of  green-gold 
bracken. 

For  some  days  thereafter  he  caught  at 
times  a  faint  echo  of  her  singing  in  the  woods. 
Once,  in  a  gleaming  silver-dusk,  he  saw  the 
imprint  of  her  small  feet,  darkly  distinct  in 
the  wet  dew,  underneath  the  little  window  be- 
hind which  Sorcha  lay.  But  she  did  not  come 
again. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  morning  that  Oona 
came  that  Nial  also,  for  the  first  and  last  time, 
beheld  the  little  Ivor — so  called  after  Ivor, 
the  brother  of  Marsail  that  was  Sorcha's 
mother,  the  noblest  man  Alan  had  ever 
known ;  "  Ivor  the  good,"  as  he  was  called  by 
some,  "  Ivor  the  poet  "  by  others. 

Alan  was  out,  talking  to  Anna  MacAnndra, 
when  Nial  stole  into  the  room.  One  hope  was 
in  his  heart :  that  Sorcha  slept. 

With  gleaming  eyes,  seeing  that  this  was 
so,   he    drew    near.     The    sight    of    the    little 

395 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

white  child,  close  lain  against  his  mother's 
bosom,  made  a  pain  in  his  heart  greater  than 
ever  the  stillest  moonlit  night  had  done — a 
suffocating  pain,  that  made  him  tremble. 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  He,  too,  he  knew, 
had  once  been  small,  perhaps  white  and  sweet, 
like  that. 

Was  it  possible  that  so  small,  so  frail  a 
thing  could  have  a  soul?  Sure,  it  could  not 
be.  If  not,  should  he  not  take  it,  and  keep  it 
by  him  in  the  forest,  till  the  day  when  it  could 
be  mate  to  him,  Nial  the  soulless?   But  if  .  .  . 

His  hand  touched  the  skin  of  the  little  rosy 
arm.  The  child  opened  its  eyes  of  wonder 
full  upon  him. 

They  gazed  unwaveringly,  seeing  nothing, 
it  may  be :  if  seeing,  heeding  not.  Had  it 
cried,  even,  or  turned  away  its  head ;  but,  no, 
its  blue,  unfearing  eyes  were  fixed  upon  this 
creature  of  another  world. 

It  was  enough.  With  a  low,  sobbing  moan 
he  turned  and  stole  unseen  from  the  room, 
and  so  out  on  the  hillside,  and  past  that  pray- 
ing-place of  Cnoc-na-shee,  where  so  vainly  he 
and  Oona  had  urged  that  which  might  not 
be ;  and  so  to  the  forest,  that  was  the  home  of 
the  wild  fawns,  and  of  the  red  fox,  and  of 
Nial. 

None,  save  the  child  Oona,  ever  saw  again 

396 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

the  elf-man  that  was  called  Nial  the  Soulless : 
none,  though  Murdo  the  shepherd  averred 
that,  once,  as  he  passed  through  the  forest  in 
the  darkness  of  a  black  dawn,  he  heard  a  wail- 
ing cry  come  from  a  great  hollow  oak  that 
grew  solitary  among  the  endless  avenues  of 
the  pines. 

It  was  far  within  that  first  month  of  moth- 
erhood, presaged  by  the  secret  rune  heard  of 
Sorcha,  the  Rune  of  the  Passion  of  Mary,  that 
only  women  dying  of  birth  may  hear:  it  was 
within  this  time  that  an  unspeakable  weakness 
came  upon  Sorcha. 

Day  by  day  she  grew  frail  and  more  frail. 
Her  eyes  were  pools  for  the  coming  shadows 
of  death. 

Strange  had  been  their  love:  strange  the 
coming  of  it:  stranger  still  was  their  joy  in 
the  hour  of  death. 

For  this  thing  upbore  her,  that  was  to  go, 
and  him,  that  was  to  stay :  Joy. 

Not  vainly  had  they  lived  in  dream.  Sweet 
now  was  the  waning  of  the  dream  into  long 
sleep.  Sweet  is  sleep  that  will  never  stir  to 
any  waking :  sweeter  that  sleep  which  is  but  a 
balm  of  rest. 

For  they  knew  this:  that  they  would  awake 
in  the  fulness  of  time. 

397 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

When,  for  the  first  time,  the  doom-word 
passed  her  lips,  Alan  shuddered  slightly,  but 
he  did  not  quail. 

"  I  am  dying,  dear  heart !  " 

"  Sorcha,  this  thing  has  been  near  to  us 
many  days.    It  is  not  for  long." 

"  And  thou  wilt  look  to  thine  own  dark 
hour  with  joy?  " 

"  Even  so." 

"  And   our   legacy   to   this    our   child  .  .  . 
shall  be  .  .  .  shall  be  .  .  ." 

"  It  shall  be  Joy.  He  shall  be,  among  men, 
Ivor  the  Joy-bringer." 

No  more  was  said  between  them,  then,  nor 
later. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  follow- 
ing this  that  Sorcha  died.  She  was  fain  to 
breathe  her  last  breath  on  the  mountain-side. 
Tenderly,  to  the  green  hillock  by  the  home- 
stead, Alan  had  carried  her.  Soft  was  the 
west  wind  upon  her  wandering  hands;  warm 
the  golden  light  out  of  the  shining  palaces  of 
cloud  whence  that  wind  came. 

He  was  stooping,  with  his  arm  upholding 
her,  and  whispering  low,  when,  suddenly,  she 
lifted  the  little  Ivor  toward  him.  Quietly  she 
lay  back  against  the  slope  of  the  green  grass. 
She  was  dead. 

Alan  quivered.     All  the  tears   of  his   life 

398 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

rose  up  in  a  flood,  and  drowned  his  heart.  He 
could  not  see  the  child  in  his  arms ;  but  he  did 
not  sway  nor  fall.     Sorcha  strengthened  him. 

Then  silently  the  wave  of  grief,  of  a  grief 
that  might  not  be  spoken,  ebbed.  Out  of  the 
sea  of  bitterness  his  soul  rose,  a  rock  with  the 
sun  shining  upon  it. 

Slowly  he  raised  the  child  above  his  head, 
till  the  wind  was  all  about  it,  and  the  flooding 
glory  of  light  out  of  the  west. 

A  look  of  serene  peace  came  into  his  face: 
within  him  the  breath  of  an  immortal  joy 
transcended  the  poor  frailty  of  the  stricken 
spirit. 

When  the  words  that  were  on  his  lips  were 
uttered,  they  were  proud  and  strong  as  the 
fires  of  the  sun  against  the  dawn : 

"  Behold,  O  God,  this  is  Ivor,  the  son  of 
Sorcha,  that  I  boon  unto  Thee,  to  be,  for  all 
the  days  Thou  shaft  give  him,  Thy  servant  of 
Joy  among  men" 

There  was  peace  that  night  upon  Iolair. 
But  toward  dawn — the  morrow  of  that  new, 
strange  life  wherein  Alan  and  the  child,  with 
Oona  mayhap,  were  to  go  forth  toward  those 
distant  isles  where,  as  Sorcha  had  seen  in  a 
vision,  Ivor's  ministry  of  joy  was  to  be — a 
great  wind  arose. 

399 


The    Mountain    Lovers 

The  hills  heard,  and  the  moan  of  them  went 
up  before  it.  The  mountains  awoke,  and  were 
filled  with  a  sound  of  rejoicing. 

Through  the  darkness  that  lightened  mo- 
mently it  came  down  the  glens  and  the  dim 
braes  of  bracken.  Many  waters  felt  the 
breath  of  it,  and  leaped. 

The  silences  of  the  forest  were  as  yet  un- 
broken. Unbroken  of  the  wind,  at  least :  for, 
faint  and  far,  there  rose  and  fell  a  monotonous 
chanting,  the  chanting  of  a  gaunt,  dwarfed, 
misshapen  figure  that  moved  like  a  drifting 
shadow  from  pine-glade  to  pine-glade. 

But  as  dawn  broke  wanly  upon  the  tallest 
trees,  the  wings  of  the  tempest  struck  one  and 
all  into  a  mighty  roar,  reverberatingly  pro- 
longed :  a  solemn,  slow-sounding  anthem,  full 
of  the  awe  of  the  Night,  and  of  the  majesty 
of  the  Day,  hymning  mysteries  older  than  the 
first  dawn,  deeper  than  the  deepest  dark. 

And  after  the  passing  of  that  great  wind 
the  forest  was  still.  Only  a  whisper  as  of  the 
sea  breathed  through  its  illimitable  green  wave. 


400 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

BY    MRS.    WILLIAM    SHARP 

Pharais,  the  first  book  written  by  William  Sharp 
over  the  signature  of  "Fiona  Macleod,"  was  pub- 
lished, in  1004,  by  Mr.  Frank  Murray  (Derby),  as 
the  third  volume  of  the  "Regent  Library,"  (of 
which  Vistas,  by  "William  Sharp,  was  the  second 
volume).  It  was  reissued,  in  1907,  by  Mr.  T.  N. 
Foulis.  In  America  Pharais  was  originally  pub- 
lished by  Messrs.  Stone  &  Kimball  (Chicago),  as 
the  first  volume  of  their  "Green  Tree  Library," 
and  was  reissued  by  Messrs.  Duffield  &  Co.  in 
1906. 

The  Mountain  Lovers  was  published  in  1895,  in 
England  and  America  by  Mr.  John  Lane,  and  a 
second  edition  was  brought  out  in    1907. 


401 


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